Pot Holes Near Deep Lake Collage Essay

A Pothole Near Deep Lake


We walk along a seemingly endless road, with smiles on hand until we come upon Deep Lake. The lake is the ultimate symbolism of life itself; a green tint shows thriving algae and the reflection of Autumn’s deciduous trees are crystal clear in the water. As I walk to the end of the dock, I spot a cave about a half-mile away in the side of cliff and decide to pursue. The walk there is a bitch; wet sand crawls into my socks and a spider web tickles me every other step – I fucking hate spiders. Upon reaching the cave, we realize we were mistaken. What we thought was a cave is actually a tunnel that slips all the way through to the other side of this massive rock. For whatever reason, no one immediately checks what lies ahead, and everyone sits down, free-writing simultaneously. I notice this group of classmates barely knows one another, yet has an ability to silently communicate. Silence – a perfect time to convey thoughts, especially when the only pretty flower for miles sits next to you and is rooted inside a god damn rock of all places.  With rumps sore from writing on jagged rocks, we move on, into this mysterious tunnel. On the other side lays a pothole, no water, but plant life flourishes here. The place I thought this would be was a place I didn’t want to visit – another boring stretch of eastern, WA terrain. Yet, to all of our dismay, a roughly 75ft diameter pothole rests, the only green tree for quite a wander sleeps here, small caves probably sheltering slithering serpents are scattered throughout. Climbing the pothole to the peak, an absolutely vivid photo is branded into our heads – Deep Lake at its best. The reflection is even sharper than before, so perfect that we almost believe a cliff and trees are lying underwater. As if things couldn’t get better, the sun begins to seep through the atmospheric sheets and I feel comfortable in every sense of the word, and the instant I feel too warm, a light drizzle kisses me. Inside my notebook, words flow like the very breeze that grasps me.  Now, meditation, without proclamation. A place so unfamiliar to me, making me feel so wanted. The breeze, the sun, the rain, birds chirping… This place… It gives me permission to leave my body, permission to become one with it… This place… This place is my place.

I can fly…




Pot Hole

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