Rhythms of Change

We recently purchased kayaks. New to the sport, I am thus still in discovery mode. Among other things, I am learning about the rhythms of directional change. With some practice, I have begun to master the admittedly simple art of moving in a relatively straight line. Negotiating turns with precision is still a work in progress. As I turn counter to the forward motion of the boat, I find there is a delay as the boat and the current find each other again and as I re-establish the rhythm of paddling in a new direction. With practice, I imagine I will find some speed. At the moment, however, I have to remind myself about the delay and not overcompensate with my strokes, thus sending the boat sharply in the opposite direction from where I had intended to travel.

I give myself similar reminders about life these days. My life has turned a significant corner in the past few months, with a cross-country move shuffling us from the prairie to the Olympic Peninsula. I love Washington, with endless possibilities for hiking and kayaking, brilliant sunsets on the ocean, misty mornings (and afternoons and evenings), moss-covered forests and a town full of people who have welcomed us with open arms. I feel happy. At the same time, I have yet to find my rhythm. With the kids in school and no job to schedule my time, I decide each morning how to spend my day. Should I write? hike? explore? chip away at the "to do" list? The prospects offer a guilty sense of freedom and also leave me feeling a tad discombobulated.

Fortunately, I have a few cross-country moves under my belt, and I can hearken back to those experiences. Six years ago, for instance, we moved from New England to Illinois. I loved Vermont, but I am a nomad by nature, and 18 years in the same locale found me aching for change. The move proceeded smoothly. We loved our new home and the abundant sunshine. Even the cornfields across the street (and around the corner and over the way...) offered a certain amount of charm as they changed with the seasons, and it would be several years before I began to long for beauty again.

Despite the warm welcome and our happy circumstances, after just a few months, I found myself in the midst of a bit of a mid-life crisis. I wriggled uncomfortably in my skin, wallowed in a funk for the better part of a year, and searched diligently for depth and meaning in my life. I thought I had descended into a depression. Looking back from my current vantage point, I realize that I probably mis-read the effects of a disruption in my life rhythm. Instead of riding out the change in direction, I fought against it, sending my little boat this way and that as I flailed.

I suppose I could have saved myself a fair amount of angst back on the prairie by learning to flow with the current. As it was, I channeled my angst into writing, and the flailing eventually evened into a productive pattern. This time, I intend to keep paddling gently--listening for the rhythms of small-town life and Olympic forest breezes and allowing myself time to match my stroke to the cadence of life around me.

In Between

I have an old family photo on my computer, taken in August of 2013 in one of those rare times when we scored a few days with all of the family together. I remember the photo shoot. Fortunately, the photographer was a family friend, familiar with our antics and thus delightfully patient with the children (some of them quite adult in size and years, if not in maturity) who could not seem to manage a few seconds in the same position.

Looking back, I realize that the family photos captured a pivotal time for us. Devin had completed an LDS mission to San Antonio, Texas earlier that week. Within days, he and Alec (newly graduated from high school) would drive the old green Honda Civic to Utah State University, where Devin would continue his interrupted degree program and Alec would snatch a quick taste of college life before his own mission.

In the weeks following the photo shoot, the older boys and I took an unforgettable hiking trip to Wyoming, Alec received his mission call to France, and Brad achieved a personal milestone over two decades in the making. As the year continued, we began to feel an increasing tug drawing us away from Illinois. It took over a year for the pieces to fall into place, but a restlessness descended, and we entered an occasionally uncomfortable period of limbo.

Lake Sylvia

Meanwhile, Devin entered a new phase of his life, bringing us a wonderful daughter-in-law in 2014 and graduating from college a year later. Jared assumed oldest child at home status, literally growing into his role and towering over the rest of us. Kristina waltzed happily (or at least dramatically) into her teenager-in-training stage. Across the Atlantic, Alec leapt out of his comfort zone, learning lessons in humility, the healing power of Belgian chocolate, and the miracles of the grace of God.

In just three months, we will gather again for a family photo, with Alec fresh off a plane from Europe and Devin and Mattea bringing us a hint of Wasatch mountain air. The four of us left at home have traded the prairies of the Midwest for the rain forests of Washington, and all of us feel the tingle of adventure as our lives evolve.

More Lake Sylvia

I spent an hour kayaking this morning on Lake Sylvia, wondering at the turn my life has taken and feeling a bit guilty at the joy I feel and the beauty that surrounds me. I paddled in solitude, accompanied only by a family of deer, my own thoughts, and the quiet depth of trees reflected on the mirror surface of the water. Struck by a particularly lovely reflection, I paddled over to take a photo, quickly discovering that the ripples of my forward movement disturbed the image in the water. Perfect moments are difficult to capture, I suppose, with cameras inadequate and life moving forward so quickly. But even woefully inadequate photos remind us of the perfection we lived for a bit and the promise of astounding moments around the next bend.