All you can do is go fishing.

It in itself solves nothing. Its the repose that matters.

Standing in a boat, rocking on the waves.  The whole world awash in the wondrous light of autumn. The warm sun of September on your face.  The cold wind of November creeping into your bones.  Sipping beer and tossing big flies, the lake empty but for yourself.  Summer slipping away, as golden leaves fall from the trees. Off in the distance the call of migratory birds.

And as you stare into the murky water, a tangle of thoughts coalesce into one.

“Find Fish.”