Bonito Lake. Picture by Greg Holt.

"Think of blue water and a fish, strong and silver, swimming freely in the water.Breath deep into your belly and picture the fish who has given his body for you to eat. Feel grateful and respectful for the earth's gifts, the fish and the ocean, and remember that the fish and the ocean are made of the same things that you are made of and that you are one with the fish and the ocean. Show your appreciation with your good manners and know that you are connected to everything you see. One more slow breath. Now, look up and smile."

This is how we sometimes meditate before dinner. I want my daughters to know that all things are connected and defined by every other thing. Killing and eating of plants and animals has been approached with a sense of sanctity since the beginning of civilization. Primitive planting civilizations believed that death is a natural phase of life, comparable to the moment of planting of the seed for rebirth. The cycle of sacrificial life and rebirth has been a theme throughout all mythology, easily understood on some level, and yet so profound that it can be a metaphor for enlightenment. It is a way to teach my daughters respect for life and nature and a way to enhance their spiritual development.

Bonito Lake outside Ruidoso in the Sacramento Mountains of Southern New Mexico is a small man-made body of clear water reflecting the blue of the sky behind a dam at the end of a road that follows the Rio Bonito through forested canyons. It lies peacefully in a high country basin north of the sacred Apache peak of Sierra Blanca. It is a fine place for teaching my girls to fish.

My daughters know intellectually that our food comes from once living animals and plants. But that realization is not grasped when food is displayed wetly under neon bulbs in the grocery or taken from the freezer wrapped in plastic. They, like most of us, live suburban lives. They rock climb in a gym and ride horses in corrals. I try to give them experiences in the outdoors by backpacking and camping trips, and, on this trip to Southern New Mexico, they are learning to fish for trout.

We descended a steep slope, holding on to the trees and rocks, to a small sandy spot on the bank and began to rig up the rods and reels. A full moon appeared rising over the tall pines across the lake to the east, yellow and full of mystery, just topping the trees. A hawk glided in from the slopes to the north and sailed across the face of the moon. It was silhouetted there in the cooling clear air and it screeched in a raptorial voice that reverberated across the lake, sounding triumph or defiance or sheer exuberance of life. I couldn't know. The hawk turned towards us with a "screak," then banked and circled over the small lake and sailed away from us, deftly disappearing into the tall darkening forest.

As the sun sank, the water turned from sky blue to a metallic gray, reflecting the coming dusk. And the trout began to rise, creating silvery concentric rings on the surface.

"They will start to bite now," I told my daughters Jessica, thirteen, and Kelly, nine. I baited their hooks with worms since they were squeamish about that, and they cast the lines themselves into the lake with some skill, having practiced without catching a fish that morning.

The number of trout rising to the surface increased, and within minutes, Jessica felt a pull on her line and shouted, "I got one, oh my gosh, I got one."

"Reel him in," I said as the fish broke the surface in a silver splash, pulling against the line in mortal struggle.

As Jessica got the fish near the bank, I caught the line and pulled the trout up close to remove the hook. Kelly had dropped her rod and come to see the fish.

"He's pretty isn't he," I said admiring the palely iridescent colored spots on the shining body as he flashed in the clear shallows. Then I pulled him up a bit and saw that he had totally swallowed the hook.

"Oh my gosh, he's so pretty. Let him go now, Daddy, he's hurt. He's bleeding, let him go!" said Kelly as I struggled to free the hook without success. I felt the life in the fish was fading away in my hands and its blood ran in thin wet tendrils down my wrist from his gills.

"Let him go!"

I cut the line and hoped for the best, holding the fish in my palm, moving i

t slowly in the water. It flicked his tail to go, but after a few feet, it turned whitely, belly up. I caught him again. "He's done for," I said as I pulled him from the water.

Kelly's face was troubled and accusatory. "Daddy, you said we wouldn't keep them. You said that we'd just catch them and let them go. You said. Now he's going to die. You said we wouldn't hurt them."

"I know, baby," I said, "but this one swallowed the hook and he won't make it. Here, you hold him. He won't go to waste. Take him over there around those rocks where those boys are fishing. They'll take him and he can be their supper."

She was almost in tears. "I didn't want him to die. You said they wouldn't die, we'd just catch and release. That's what you said." She stood angry and sad with the fish wet in her grip spasmodically twitching its silver tail fin. Then it slipped from her hand and flopped on the ground. Jessica picked it up. Together they walked hurriedly away to where the boys were fishing.

I tied another (this time larger hook) to Jessica's line. They returned a bit later and told me that the boys were fishing with their family and were glad to have the fish since they had caught nothing yet.

I continued to cast with no luck. Jessica went back to bait fishing. The youngest sat on a rock and looked at the water and fish breaking the calm surface in the failing light. "Don't you want to try and catch one?" I asked.

"I don't want to kill it."

"Oh oh oh! I got another one, Dad!" Jessica shouted.

"Oh no, don't hurt it," cried Kelly, "Please, please."

The fish was smaller than before and splashed on the surface as Jessica reeled fast. As it came close, I again caught the line, and, as I did, the fish came off and blurred away into the clear water's darkness. "Did you see it, Kelly?" I asked.

"Oh, he was pretty too. But smaller and he, oh I'm glad, he got away."

"Why don't you try again?" I asked.

"Yeah, Kelly, its fun," said Jessica.

"I don't want to hurt the fish," said Kelly, but she was already standing and walking to her rod and reel, dragging her feet a bit.

"It's almost dark and we'll have to leave soon," I said. "I'd like for you to catch one."

"Yeah, I'm already two ahead of you," said Jessica.

Kelly gave her a dirty look and walked up beside me. I baited her hook and threw it out for her. She held the rod reluctantly, expectantly, and stood watching the water under the rising moon. The moon had lost most of its atmospheric yellow color and was brightening white and cold in the darkening skies as it rose higher above the trees. I thought of the hawk, sitting perhaps nearby, in the black shadows of the scented pines in predatory stillness.

I sat still myself for a moment, watching the two people I love the most as they stood by the water, poised in anticipation of a strike, studying the surface of the water in the failing light. The darkness settled around us and the temperature dropped in the thin high altitude atmosphere. Then I gathered up the tackle and prepared to climb the steep bank to the road. "OK guys, reel them in. Time to go."

"Let's stay just a little longer," said Jessica.

"Yeah," said Kelly as she turned around to me, " I . . ."

Kelly's line bobbed and the rod tip dipped. "Kelly, I think you got a bite!"

She yanked up the rod and began to reel in saying, "Daddy, oh my gosh, what do I do?"

"I think you're doing it."

Soon the end of the line was at the bank but there was no fish on it. "Must have got away," I said. She seemed to be both relieved and disappointed.

"Wow, I can't believe I caught two fish," said Jessica as we loaded the tackle into the truck and prepared to drive into Ruidoso for dinner.

"I almost caught one too, didn't I?" Kelly asked.

"Looked that way," I said.

"I'm glad I didn't catch him though. I don't want to kill one. They are so pretty - so alive, you know. How could anyone kill one?"

"What if you were real hungry?" I asked.

"Well, if I was real hungry, like right now, you know, you'd take me to Farley's for pizza," she said smiling slyly."

"Pizza it is," I said.

Back at home, we ate fish for dinner the other night.

"Close your eyes and be still. Think of mountain lakes and fish swimming in the cold water. Think of hawks and the rising moon. Be grateful and reverent. Breath in . . . and out. This food came from the water and the land. You stay alive with this food. You are made from the same things as the land and the fish and the hawk. Open your eyes now. Look up and smile."

"This fish looks good," Kelly said. "I like mine with ketchup."