Back in Brooklyn, in rising heat and humidity, I reflect on our recent time near the edge of Lake Ontario. A benign accident led us all to the greater Rochester area for G to take a dance intensive. Every day we drove forty minutes from the lake to SUNY Brockport, switched drivers, and I returned lakeside.

On our last day, I wrote:

Today I sit in my regular seat, a beige Naugahyde oversized armchair, circa 1965, pressed up against tall, thin windows of flaking paint with screens secured by duct tape. I have the chair turned almost entirely toward the exterior to take in the majesty of the view and our proximity to it, no more than fifteen feet from the shoreline. Elevated, it feels like less. Beneath us, a retaining wall is of such great urgency for the future of this little pink cottage that it is as if we are at sea ourselves.

This morning a strong wind pushes off Lake Ontario, and the lone obstruction to our view, a brave young oak to my left, moves almost as much as the waters pounding its roots. Over the course of the past three weeks, the lake and tree have gone from dead calm—and host to constant aviary flirtation—to white-capped, furious and barely holding on.

Each day I take note of the lake’s mood. Our location gives us views of sunrise and sunset, our perspective enhanced by the capacity to take in floor-to-ceiling blues and greens of infinite variety. I reflect on where the water ends and the sky begins. Some days it is invisible. Where does the land end and the water begin? Even less certainty there.

One night it was so clear that we could see Toronto’s lights, a line of miniature white diamonds polka-dotting the western horizon. Another night, the lake was so tempestuous that the ancestry of pain and destruction housed in those ancient waters gave me chills of deference and a dose of fear. One always hears not to underestimate the Great Lakes; I am growing more respectful than ever.

There are no tides; the surf comes from almost any direction. The lake appears vaguely vexed that she is has to stop here at these low palisades. Erosion feels like it’s happening as we breathe; New York and Canadian governments allegedly help this by recently raising the overall water level.

Of the Greats, we know Lake Michigan better. She tends to be more certain of her shoreline—at least where we know her, in the northwest part of the state of Michigan. There is a greater sense of boundary. Perhaps this is more the consequence of the annual dredging effort, the human insistence on sandy beaches and harbors deep enough for passage. The illusion that we have control.

The first day, I took a moment to research and compare these two grand dames. On the map, Ontario is wide; Michigan is tall. Ontario is a third the size of Michigan and the smallest of the Greats at 7,430 square miles. Fascinated, I geeked out for a while on lake retention time (also known as residence time, flushing time, or the time it takes for a substance to flow in and out) for Michigan: 99 years! For Ontario: 6.

For the largest Great Lake, Superior, it takes 191 years; for Erie, 26, and for Huron, 22.

(Still want to play? Lake Tahoe—the lake of my heart and childhood—650 years. Lake Vostole in Antarctica, 13,300 years. I am seeing invasive species in a new light.)

It’s Ontario’s outlet to the Atlantic via the St Lawrence River that helps her flush. Named by their original landlords, Michigan means “Great Lake” in Ojibwe; Ontario means “Sparkling Water” in Huron. I see those sparkles as I write. I see what they once saw, those who lived here before cottages and the notion of dance workshops and holidays and “needing to get away.”

While sitting here, I have been witness to an eagle flying far and deep, its distinguishing bright golden beak and crisp white head and tail feathers growing so faint I had to squint to track it, until it u-turned and headed straight for us, turning west and raising altitude on approach. I yelped in awe causing the dog to join in.

We also spotted a small orange and black bird—an Oriole, perhaps—in the branches of the young oak, and I felt my reflexive rush of affection for all things orange and black.

We are indeed here by accident, by the sheer happenstance of the closest AirBnB owner who would allow us to bring our pets. But also, it feels particularly strongly from this seat, by cosmic accident.

Especially when surrounded by a liquid body of 393 cubic miles while dwelling in bodies that are more than half water themselves. In point of fact, our brains and hearts are 73% water; our lungs are 83% water. The essentials. This may explain why I calm down, sitting here. Just being. As within, so without.

*

Yes, G returned to live with us.

The months apart defined what it felt like to be more autonomous. In the land of single parents, that line can get blurry. Where, really, does a parent end and a child begin? Does it ever truly end? I am told by the wise: once a parent, always a parent. Age is more about yielding to the unknown, the uncontrollable. About acceptance and allowing that we care just as much as we did the first day, yet with less and less impact on the outcome.

It is about understanding that the waters will manifest in thousands of ways from placid to livid, from whispering to demanding, from clear to obscure. And on a clear night they may reveal another country.

Since G was born, I’ve carried this acute awareness of the fragility of life and the ephemerality of our time together. The clock ticks ever louder. Yet thanks to my time alone in the city, I have come to the realization that this will not be an ending but a beginning. New steps will not break the bond of mother and daughter, but rather they will build the bonds of two women growing in their own power. This inevitability brings with it a bittersweet mix of elation and fear, relief and restraint, trust and surrender.

Much of this journey has been unexpected, sending me regularly into paroxysms of doubt both in myself and the universe. I expected to share the return drive to NYC with G, practicing some road-tripping basics with a stop at Moosewood Restaurant, but a joyful turn in the storyline is sending her to our familiar Great Lake while the pets and I head southeast toward reality and humidity.

A few short years ago, we never would have considered two separate paths when one would do, but now, two paths are who we are, at times running side by side but increasingly less by design and more by choice.