This essay was prompted by a return trip to the North Shore of Lake Superior this summer, where standing at the shore of a lake that refuses to behave like a lake set me thinking about the two faces of a frame-dissolving encounter with mystery. The essay braids two classical Chinese chengyu — 望洋興嘆, gazing at the ocean and sighing, and 劉海戲蟾, Liu Hai plays with the toad — with two different settings: the North Shore and a kiva in Frijoles Canyon at Bandelier National Monument. The Zhuangzi’s Autumn Floods chapter holds both the ocean and the well in the same breath, and the essay follows that pairing outward to the shore where the frame dissolves in a sigh, and downward into the dark.
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