Communicating Effervescence

When I think of the word effervescence, I am skimming on top of the water in my aqua kayak on the lake, remembering the wide, flat female loon I saw more than three weeks ago still sitting loyally on her eggs, beak down on the sand…waiting.

A few minutes ago, I paddled in silent, slow motion towards the mother and her two babies. They let me get quite near before they skirted away from me. But as one of the little ones took off, he doused one webbed foot and shook it off, spraying tiny beads of light-filled water into the air. “Hello, goodbye,” the baby loon seemed to be saying to me.

I blinked, took in a deep breath, and moved on.

As a kid, I was lucky to have summers on the water–some years the icy North Sea waters of the Skaggerak in the south of Norway. One of five, we would clamber down the cliff over the rocks after our long-legged Norwegian mother. Mom would scout the water for jellyfish, the kind with long, colorful, poisonous stingers. Coast clear, she jumped in, let out a high pitched “Eeeeeeeeee,” turned immediately on her back and kicked furiously at the water till a halo of white froth spurted the sky behind her. “Come in, come in,” she teased.

Courage to own a scintillating moment, I leapt in holding my nose, screamed “Eee,” and kicked up a little foam.

A kiss between my husbands’ lips and mine sets my heart to rumble–a train racing backwards towards the fresh smelling boy I knew once, and forwards to the man distinct to me now. The train traverses time blazing a track over low sagebrush, sparking twigs to fire in the dry heat of night, a constellation of glowing embers panning out to a geometric pattern against the dark.