A Salt Lake Life
Sharon Daly
Memory is part of the composition of a salt like life, so the story of creating my own Great Salt Lake life
starts with the remembrance of a watery event from my childhood. When I was three years old I was at
a beach with my family on a hot summer day. There was a shiny, metal slide right at the edge of the
lake, beckoning me to climb up its perforated steps so that I could slip down it into the cool water. It
wasn’t very high, although it seemed high to my three-year old self. There was no danger of not knowing
how to swim, because the slide ended in about 5 inches of water. My mom was on a beach blanket, but I
have no recollection of what she was doing when I went up that slide, maybe talking to someone. I don’t
have many memories of my mother being fully present with me. It seems like she always had something
else on her mind, like keeping the kitchen floor polished and endless dusting of the furniture. I climbed
up the ladder and slid down, and promptly disappeared from sight. This is one of my earliest memories landing in that water and realizing that it was over my head. Some thoughtless kids had dug a large hole
in the sand right at the end of the slide. It was perfectly positioned to capture any unsuspecting child
who landed in it. Not deadly to anyone taller than its depth, but potentially deadly to me. I remember
being swallowed up by water. My eyes tried to open in the brown, sandy murk and I was flailing my
arms, to no avail. My mother said she looked up and I was gone. It did not compute, me going down that
slide into a few inches of water, and then disappearing. I don’t know how much time elapsed, but it
seemed like an eternity until a hand reached down into that hole and brought me to the surface,
sputtering and coughing up water on the beach. It was my mother’s hand, one that I didn’t get to hold
much, except when I needed to be hurried along.
This image of a hand reaching down just in time is part of the mineral makeup of my personal salt lake.
As rivers of experiences flowed into it through the years, there are other memories that have
contributed to its unique saltiness. Do you remember a popular trust exercise where you cross your
arms over your chest, close your eyes and fall backwards? I first encountered it at a camp in middle
school. The people lined up behind me caught me as I let go and free fell without seeing the hands that
would catch me before I hit the ground. That was the premise and the promise. It always worked. Even if
the kids behind me weren’t necessarily friends, they knew that they had to catch everyone or else.
What happens when we grow up and wonder if there really will be someone there? Or that falling into a
dark, murky hole may just swallow us up? Or the people we thought were there to catch us walk away
and there is no buffer between us and the hard ground? Or the ground shifts beneath our feet and we
don’t even know if it’s there to fall back on at all? Maybe it will just open up into an abyss beyond our
capability to crawl out. It would be easy to become cynical and NEVER trust again, deadened to
deliverance and hope. This is where the Great Salt Lake comes in. Far from being a dead sea, it’s a
vibrant habitat that has formed over millions of years. The landscape is constantly changing, supporting
an ecosystem of connection that that has much to teach us.
The Great Salt Lake is a “terminal” lake. And so are we, although we don’t often care to admit it. The
only way water can leave is through evaporation. There is no other exit route. But this very fact is what
gives the lake its unique character. All the dissolved minerals that have accumulated over thousands of
years have made the lake quite salty, and allow people to float on its surface quite easily. What keeps us
afloat? Experiences, joys, sorrows, tears, failures, successes, losses and gains. Like the dissolved
minerals that make the Great Salt Lake nine times saltier than the ocean, these contribute to who we
are, and what we become. They buoy us up on the most difficult days, remind us where we come from,
what we have learned, and how much support always surrounds us, like unseen hands cradling us in
gentle waves of understanding.
The shoreline of the Great Salt Lake is constantly moving. Water levels can rise and fall dramatically
Microbes, animals and plants that live in and around the Great Salt Lake have to adapt and adjust to an
ever-changing environment and conditions. This is a lot like life. Change is a constant that finds us
wading calmly in the shallows and other times floundering in very deep water. Sometimes it takes an
artist to bring to light things that exist beneath the surface. In 1970, Robert Smithson constructed land
art in the northwest arm of the lake. It is known as “Spiral Jetty”, but it only becomes visible when the
Great Salt Lake drops below 4, 197 feet above sea level. It is a long spiral arm, circling inward to the
center, or a center, circling outward to a strong connecting link with the shore. When our own
water levels drop - from disasters, disease, disappointments, deaths –we can know with
certainty that central spiral at the very center of existence. We often forget about it until
lowering waters of trouble threaten us, and there it is - a tangible reminder of our artistic soul
that can take whatever life throws at us, and make it beautiful.
What else nurtures and sustains us on our journey through life? Look to the shoreline that
surrounds the water, holding it in a loving embrace. Billions of brine flies live on the periphery
of the Great Salt Lake. They don’t bite. They are sustenance for the millions of migratory birds
who pause along their journey for rest and refreshment. People come into our lives for the
same purpose. We don’t have to look far to find our own willing “brine flies” who will shore us
up. It could be an unexpected stranger, a serendipitous meeting that provides food for our
spirit. Sometimes it is a family member we haven’t seen for a while, or the friends who come
swarming around when we most need them, circling us in a loving embrace until we can stand
upright again. It doesn’t matter if we reach up a waving hand full of vulnerability for someone
to grasp, or if they reach down and find us floundering. We have the assurance of the
dependable brine flies making possible the journey of millions of soaring birds.
Where there is water, there is usually sand; hard rocks worn down by long years of wind, waves
and currents. Their weathering yields a soft cushion for our feet. The Great Salt Lake has very
unique sand. It is Oolitic, composed of a nucleus consisting of a central core surrounded by
concentric layers of lime. Each grain is perfectly round, small pearls of certainty between our
toes. At our central core are the layers of accumulated life that are constantly forming
concentric rings, yielding a perfect circle of understanding, a round rim of eternity, an unbroken
wholeness. Our own salt lake lives are forged through the years by minerals of wisdom, love
and grace, made salty by the joys and grief of humanity’s tears mixed with our own. I couldn’t
have known this when I went down that slide many years ago. But I know it now. Our personal
salt lakes contain all the elements we need to nurture and support us. We can let go and float,
eyes turned toward the sun. No fear of drowning.