Becoming my norm again
And calling it a life?
As summer winds down, I find myself able to process it. Or begin to process it. With young kids at home all summer, there’s been no shortage of chaos. There’s been no seasonal rhythm, not even a daily one. Only shifting winds that I’ve had to constantly adjust my sails to. Which has required me to become attuned to the wind. To move with it. For a while, the winds can blow favorably. The sailing can be smooth and clear and utterly beautiful. Then all of a sudden, I find myself needing to sail in diagonals to meet the howling gale heads.
I remember a wilderness course I took one summer of my own childhood. It was called something like, How to stay alive in the wild with just a knife and your wits. But now that I’m a parent of three young boys, summers are far wilder than anything I experienced out in the woods. A whole other level of survival skills are needed.
In the normal routines of work and school, life is systematic and highly organized. It’s programmatic. We set our alarm clocks to 6:30 and follow our tightly-packed schedules. There’s no time to waste. No time to think. For both us adults and the kids, every moment is planned. Every move predetermined. We simply follow the agenda in busy, social environments where even the light and temperature are carefully regulated. No matter the season or weather, it’s the same light, the same degree of heat. We eat lunch at the same time too. Round clocks hang above every door and reminders chime all day long.
In many ways, these systems make life manageable for us. As a working mother with a day job, three young kids, and a creative practice that I’m deeply dedicated to, the routines feel essential. They make it all (almost) possible. But I can’t help but wonder, do these systems cause us to become completely disembodied?
When summer arrived and those structures collapsed, life felt unbearable. Even for the kids, it took some weeks for us to learn this new way of being. Now, nine weeks later, I find myself more guided by the wind than a clock. Our days unfold according to things that shift hour by hour, like the clouds or our energy levels or the random person who pops by.
Yesterday, for example, we were working in the garden, sun beating down on our backs, when I got a strong urge to swim. To hurl my sweaty body into a cold body of water. I asked around the family, and everyone said yes to a spontaneous trip to the beach. On our way, we stopped for strawberries on the side of the road. Ate them on our beach blanket and then swam until our bodies had enough. We let the sun slowly dry our skin as we watched sailboats float across the blue horizon. On our way home, we took a small detour and visited a neighbor’s farm for fresh milk and eggs. I had no idea what time it was, but by the time we sat down for dinner, dusk brushed across the hillside in shades of metallic pink. The sheep didn’t know what time it was either, but they all got up and walked together to the forest where they sleep every night. At some point, we all went to bed too. All at the same time. We slept until we had enough.
Now that summer is coming to an end, I wonder how I can go back. How did I ever function with tight schedules and long commutes on congested highways and rarely seeing my kids and rushing to and fro every minute of the day? How will I override every impulse of my body and the creative impulses that come along, spend my days in screens and documents, florescent environments and calendar alerts? How will I quickly pass through the vibrant meadows and forests on my way to the bus, tell them I don’t have time to stop today and gather anything as I usually do. How long until I don’t notice anything growing there at all? Just two months ago, this was my norm. Now it feels completely out of the question. How can I let it become my norm again – and call it a life?
xx
Beth