I step into Mill Lake, expecting to feel the cold bite of glacial water. But I've forgotten: I'm not in an alpine lake. I'm in southern Michigan, on a small inland body of water. I
I swim and I swim. I swim across the lake, aiming for the white lawn chairs of the Chicago people's house across from our cottage. I turn and aim back toward the float plane on the other side. Unlike where I live, I can stay in the water.
It's like that here, a gentler side to life that I've forgotten. It seems easy here, a September without nights of frost or hint of snow, a season where I usually have to carry a puffy jacket wherever I go. Not here. Life feels easy here, without an edge.
Of course I'm wrong. Winter is coming and lake swimming won't be possible. I'll be gone by then. But for now I swim farther than I ever have, outside of a pool confines. This is why travel is good. You step out of your bubble.