Wednesday, September 30, 2015

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.


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