While at the cabin, I pulled on some gardening gloves and lazily walked out to the patch of what used to be an artistic expression of Grandma's ability to grow flora and fauna. It was still her garden, even though the cabin has been passed to my parents as grandma and grandpa grew elderly. Grandma had planned, hauled rock, planted seeds, nurtured buds and fed local critters with this garden. I took a deep breath and cocked my head to the side as I reflected on the task ahead of me. Weed it. It sounds so simple. Little did I know that a mundane task like weeding can yield not only dirt under the nails but warmth in the soul.

The wildflower patch of grandma's pride had shriveled and dried over the years. Left unmaintained,  the garden's gentle beauty had faded and become overgrown with stubborn weeds. Yuck- this was going to take longer than I thought. Reach for the roots. Pull. These little buggers just cling to where they lay their roots. Sweating and feeling the mid-June sun mingle with the Minnesota humidity, I felt defeated.

I lead my hands on a small cleared patch of soil and closed my eyes. Thumping the earth a few times with my gloved hands, I anticipated the "hope" that would soon be planted. Who knew that hope could manifest itself in a hosta. My mind wandered to the surrounding land, the cabin, the lake and the driveway. Grandma and Grandpa had bought this land with the intention of laying down roots. They anticipated the growth of tradition and memories as the structure went up according to grandma's architecual design.

 I felt connected. I felt connected to the cabin and everyone that had come there before me. It was a moment of seeing the commonalties of generations. My grandma weeded this garden. I weed the garden and my family for years to come will weed. My mom slept by the fire pit at age 10. That same fire pit is now a gathering place for teenagers with angst, twenty-somethings with their latest risk-taking ventures and empty-nesters wondering if they are really empty or rather, just now filled. Tomorrow it will be a place where I can explain the mystery of the bottomless cabin coffee cup, walleye legends and how to roast the perfect marshmallow to my own children.

 I felt connected with my family as I continued to rest my hands on the earth. The fears, the disappointments and failures I bring to our weekend get-a-ways have been brought by others before me and will continue to be brought by my children and my children's children. We shed these things at the lake. We leave them at home with our cell phones, TVs and Internet access. Good books, conversations and the possibility for a "No Rain" forecast take priority at the lake.

 Pulling a few more weeds, I breathe in air and connect with the land. There is a sacredness of returning to the same respite spot time and time again. The land heals "Up North." The water cools and the lemonade tastes better with well water.

Finally- a little plot of land was cleared a way. Ready to plant! Digging a special spot for the wildflowers and brushing earth aside to make way for the hostas, I was thankful. Thankful for this place we call "cabin." Thankful for my family and all their humanness. Thankful for the earth and all it's healing properties. Thankful for the safe haven we find when we connect at the lake.

By Heather McClelland