I had the time. That's the key--I had the time. I needed to get to Chicago by four, and I left Grand Rapids in the a.m., plenty early.
So I got off interstate and started looking for the familiar signs I see every time I go home to the other side of the lake, "Lake Michigan tour" or something, the blacktops--and sometimes freeways--that belt the lakeshore. I wanted to wade up to a sandbar.
A sign said Covert Park and pointed toward the lake. It had to have a beach, and it did.
Cost me five bucks, but I was the only one there, and the guy in the store at the entrance let me plug in my phone to get it recharged. Oddly enough, I think I made money.
I walked a mile or so, then sat, alone, bright water magically spread out before me, an eternal turquoise apron. I sat there alone, and loved it. Late September. As far as I could see north and south, nary a soul.
This is what I saw.
But mostly this--
gracious beauty as richly alluring and sensual as life itself--
And this morning, three weeks later, with the sun soon rising on the flatland prairie landscape right outside my window, I'm thankful to have found Covert Park that Saturday morning. I'm no more hurry than I was right then, and the russet land around me, soon enough, will be crowned in gold by the dawn; but this morning's thanks is for all of our moments alone in sweet and gracious places.
Five bucks it cost me, and I got recharged.