The Lady of the Lake and the Queen of the Night

The lake on the land where we live is many different worlds. It changes to greatly from spring, to summer, to fall, and to winter, and then again from day to night. Each one might as well be its own universe.

I spend my days teaching and working, like most parents. In the spring we scramble around the woods looking for fiddleheads. My children gobble them up like little bears. I have shown them where and how to harvest the spring delicacies. We follow the foragers first rule, which is never to harvest the first or the last of anything. We want to make sure that there will always be plenty of these ferns around the lake and the woods.

In summer my daughters and I take our baskets and collect the watercress that grows in the cool shallow waters of the spring, which also feeds our lake. These greens are spicy and we always look forward to them. My husband takes the girls here too, but he knows they are a favorite of mine, and does not come too often for my sake.

When fall rolls around we place our girls, laughing and singing, into a little wooden rowboat we keep tied to our dock. Sometimes they fight about who gets to sit where, and if they squabble too much they will tip into the water. Their lifejackets are kept secure and the sudden cold of the water is enough to snap them out of their argument. This has happened enough times to be somewhat routine. While they ask questions from the boat my husband and I squelch through the thick mud to dig up the cattail roots, or rhizomes, for a fall delicacy. It is dirty work, but we love it. The red winged black birds love it less, and scream at us from their perches until we have retreated. Don’t tell them that it was not they who caused our retreat, but rather a successful end to our foraging mission. We unload our (sometimes soaked) children from the boat, take home our baskets of rhizomes, and grill them for supper.

And in the winter? Oh, the winter. We ice skate, of course. The mudroom of our house is always a tangle of skates, thick socks, jackets, scarves, hats, and mittens. It smells like wet wool at all times. The winter sun is bright through the bare branches of the trees as we glide across the ice. I am faster at skating, but my husband can jump higher.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that this is a perfect idyll. We work hard for our lake. The mosquitos and horseflies chase us relentlessly. Crayfish skitter among the rocks at the edge of the water and always make me shriek. I know those pincers are not for me, but I never feel comfortable around them. We let the rest of the property wild itself, rather than grow and treat grass. In the woods around the water we chop the down and dead wood for our fireplace, and thin the trees as needed. It is work that brings splinters and stubbed toes, sore arms, and tired backs. Stinging nettles, which I can harvest for medicine and food, nevertheless live up to their name and sting our bare skin as we brush past them. The wild raspberry bushes that provide us with sweet fruit also tear at us with thorns.

The wildlife that is drawn to the water also loves my herb and vegetable gardens. The chicken wire fences we build only stand up for a matter of time until clever hands and snouts make way for everyone to snag a treat.

I love every bit of this, but this is all the day-time world, and I love the night more. The day is the time when I work with my family and give every part of myself to them. At night, when I quietly slip out the backdoor, I make my way down to the edge of the lake. I go barefoot so that I can feel the moss on the rocks, and the worn wood of the logs, or the dock. I step out of my shorts and shirt until I stand in just my underthings, and I listen to the sounds of the night creatures. Bullfrogs call loudly to one another, and their throaty chorus is bolstered by the crickets. I like their music. It is the sound of my summers.

When I step into the water of the lake I feel the rocks and mud between my toes and I give myself a second before I submerge the rest of my body. By late June the heat and humidity of the day is strong enough to linger far into the night, and the water feels good against my skin. Still, there is some part of me that is always a little hesitant. After the first strokes of my arms, which pull me towards the deeper water in the center of the lake, all hesitancy is gone. I like to float on my back and idly drift, looking up at the starry sky. The trees are a thick, leafy canopy around the edges of the lake, but in the center I have a clear view. Here, I like to imagine myself as the Lady of the Lake. No one needs me, no one is asking me questions, or to get them a glass of juice, or about where to find a receipt they thought they saved. Out here I can be fully and deliciously myself.

But I am not alone, and I know that I am not the Queen of the Night. That honor is reserved for the barn owl. I see her almost every night. Her pale feathers are just visible against the blackness of the trees. If the moon is full, or almost full, I can see her better as she glides through the sky. Often, I see her dive nimbly to the ground to catch a mouse or some other unseen critter for her meal. She does not hoot; this is something for other owls, but not for her. I have heard barn owls shriek before. It sounds otherworldly. My husband will say, “the banshees are out tonight” when we hear it. Mostly, this Queen of the Night is silent though. I always look for her as part of my night-swim ritual. I wonder if she looks for me? Probably not in any way that I as a human would recognize, but she could hardly fail to miss me in the water, since she does not miss a single thing.

The mosquitos still bite when I am in the water. I submerge myself to hide from them, but eventually that only works so well, and the tiredness which creeps into my muscles, bring me back to shore. I put on my shorts and shirt over my wet skin, and take in another moment of night. If I am lucky I will see the barn owl again. Then I hurry through the grass back to the house. My husband has kept a light on in the back porch for me to welcome me. I often think about when my girls are older, and when they too might need a place to escape. I want to show them the lake at night, and the Queen of the Night. I hope it can provide a healing space for them, but for now they are asleep and dreaming in their beds, secure in their childhood.

When it gets colder I will stop swimming. Autumn is a busy time of harvesting both in my garden, and the wild foods around our land. School begins, and then the holidays arrive. I strive to make my way back to my lake at night. In January, when the air is so cold it is sharp, and the snow is crackly and crisp, I bundle myself thickly in warm things and head out. On the shores of the frozen lake I can sit and wait for the moon to rise. When it is full I call it “owl moon”, and it is so bright that everything in the woods is illuminated. The snow sparkles and I sit and watch the night unfold around me. Barn owls don’t migrate, so I wait for the Queen to appear. I am rarely disappointed, and it makes for a stunning spectacle to see her glide silently across the face of the moon.

Afterwards, I come inside to find my husband waiting for me at the table with hot chocolate in hand. I know he would join me for these excursions if I ask, but he also knows that I like to go alone. I tell him about the owls and he nods. He has heard this before, but he always listens to me tell it again. I love this about our partnership.

This is how the seasons are here, with our family, around the lake. We share it and strive to be good stewards. It was here long before we were, and will hopefully continue long after, with our lives as just another chapter in its story. I hope the owls will be here too. The Lady of the Lake can come and go, but this place will always need a Queen of the Night.