Summer recap: what we do in the off season

So what does a girl do in the off season whose dogs take up much of her time in the fall and winter?

You would think the answer is relax, but we have been very busy this summer! Clearing trees, creating new puppy paths for daily walks with the dogs on our property, renovating this old farm house, and yakking! 

"Yakking" - my affectionate term for kayaking - has been a passion of mine for about the last eight years. This summer, I have officially passed the yakking bug over to my 12-year old daughter, Elise. She's become quite good at it too. 

Elise in the background being cool on her kayak

This summer has been unbelievably hot, with a total accumulation of three weeks worth of days at 90 degrees or above, so it was perfect to spend lots of time on the water. For her first kayak, I didn't want to invest too much. My Wilderness System is a mid-level kayak that costs about what you'd expect a mid-level kayak to cost. Not knowing if Elise would "take the bait," I opted for an "entry-level" Sundolphin brand sit-on-top kayak for her birthday in May. She had been kayaking in a tandem yak with me before, but this was the first time completely on her own. I gave her a brief lesson about the basics, and she took to it swimmingly! She's become quite adept on the water too and can easily keep up with me when paddling. We have enjoyed many hours paddling together this summer watching the fantastic sunsets over the lake by the Ranch.

Taken with my "real" camera: on of the amazing sunsets at the lake we kayak on

Elise's silhouette while watching the sun setting in the west

One thing I adore about kayaking is, because it's relatively silent depending on how you paddle, it allows for an extremely up-close and personal view of wildlife. I have seen more wildlife while paddling than at any other time, including by dog sled or backpacking. Elise got to see her first active beaver couple doing beaver things beside their den, muskrats, countless blue heron, falcons, hawks and many other animals.

A lone beaver swimming in the setting sun

We have been doing lots of fishing this summer too. Elise caught a fairly large catfish one evening, and last evening while kayaking, I caught a 12 inch crappie from the same lake. 

Elise focusing on her line

Me and the "crappie" - an unfortunate name for a beautiful fish

When it wasn't too hot, we trekked many miles hiking in various places where Pokemon don't go. 

Elise and her sister, Sophie on a family trip. 

Cooling their feet in the creek after a hike

 

Sisters

We have ventured into less wild places too, like Stan Hywett Hall & Gardens in Akron - the largest house in Ohio. 

A view of the hall from the rose garden on the 70 acre grounds

Sophie and Elise in Stan Hywett mansion

And we have ventured into various craft stores and been silly ...

Sophie in Pat Catan's bouncing a giant fluff ball on her head ... 

...while a masked Elise watches on

Now we are gearing up for fall training to begin, and that normally begins around Labor Day, but I have little faith that the temps will cool off by then for us to run. 

Here's to a great summer and blanket weather ahead! 

A grainy cell phone photo from an evening when it was cool enough to cuddle in a blanket

Until next time,

The quintessential summertime photo

My favorite summertime thing

 Enjoy summertime.

"Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst.

And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows
through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every
single moment of my stupid little life..."

Lester Burnham from the film, American Beauty

I am really best in solitude. I needed some solitude the other night. I had been working outside all day on a project (for another post), and I was dirty and in bad need of a shower.

Instead, I headed for my boat and the lake. I paddled strong at first. A dragonfly skimmed along the water beside me, pacing itself at the same speed, as the hull of my boat met the setting sun.



I slowed my pace as the sun dipped lower behind the trees in the west, and I floated upon this little flower. The light was low, but I paddled ashore just to capture this bit of beauty.



As I got back into my boat, I realized I was at the same part of the lake I was at last summer when I got the news from my doctor that an abscess was quickly taking over my abdomen (see that post here). I had no idea then how my life was about to change.

The same message I heard from nature then rings true today: let go.

Physical healing is measurable; emotional and spiritual healing is timeless, immeasurable. What can take weeks for the body to heal can take months or even years for the spirit to heal from.



I am still recovering. But I have moved to a place of letting go and healing emotionally now. And I have decided to make some changes - simple things, like eating holistically, giving up aspartame, and foods that contain high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils - that I hope will enable my body and my spirit to return to optimum shape. It comes at a time when I am trying in all ways to living closer to the earth.

The thing that heals your heart is also what heals your soul. It's no secret: I wear my heart on my sleeve.



The thing that heals my heart is beauty. And there is so much beauty, if we just let go, with loving kindness, and accept that things are unfolding exactly as they should.



Namaste

"Blue"

Blue faded from water and weather at the marina at West Branch State Park

We planned it for mid-week, when things would be less crowded. The weather was supposed to be good. My best friend from high school was up visiting from Kentucky. This camping trip was long overdue.

It would be awesome to have an actual paddlin' buddy! I usually paddle in complete solitude. So we planned a kayak trip too.


Kim and Sophie kayaking with me on the lake - what a treat!

We packed up the hammock and prepared for some girl time, just Kim, the kidlets Sophie and Elise, and me.


Hammock hog

I was happy to see my friend, Mr. Blue Heron, was back fishing along side the lake.



The kids played on the beach while Kim and I watched the sun go down and talked and talked. We had a lot to catch up on. Then we made a fire and roasted dinner over it - and had a feast! Melon, strawberries, pasta salad, bread, cheese, fresh salsa and cilantro and turkey dogs over an open fire.


Elise was a happy camper

That evening, Kim pulled out her guitar and we made up silly songs about fireflies.

Embrace all seasons. Enjoy the company of good people. Enjoy the simple joys in life. Namaste.

A post for Kathleen

My soul sister in Minnesota, Kathleen, recently asked me a question that stopped me for awhile. She asked, child-like, for me to fill in the blank to this statement: "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than _____?"

What is beauty? It's personal, unique, relative to the person and their experiences. The best way for me to describe beauty is often to think of synonyms for it.

Beauty is often synonymous with silence, for me - quiet places I carry in my heart and go to in times of trouble. Like this.


Is there anything more beautiful than floating inches above the water at sunset in my kayak?

And this:



I can't think of much more beautiful than seeing the faces of each of my children moments after they each took their first breath.

Beauty is love. Unconditional love. It is seeing my dad smile on his 70th birthday.



Beauty is participating in this miraculous life.




And drinking it in.



It is watching trumpeter swans return to a lake in Ohio in March to court each other at sunset...



Beauty is forgiveness. And grace. And learning "what peace there may be in silence."



May you carry your unique beauty inside you to light the world.

A night of silhouettes

It's been hot here. The kind of heat only a mid-August Ohio can bring. Monday, the temperature combined with the humidity created a heat index of 100 degrees. The house has been invaded by pooches; I hate to leave them outside in temps that high.

The last three nights, I've retreated to the lake in the evening.



I love the week nights, because I'm often the only soul on the big lake. This was the case the last few nights. Perhaps the heat was even too much for boaters. My mother, as always, gets so concerned with my seeking of solitude.

"Be careful," she warns through the cell. "People can do anything out there in the middle of no where."

But I've never felt safer or more at peace than when I'm paddling on open water.

Alone floating in my favorite summer place, a symphony of crickets and cicadas sang, celebrating the pinnacle of summer's heat. The silhouette of a blue heron, leggy and tall, stands on a sand bank like some thin yogi. Bats flutter above my head - five or six of them diving, silhouetted against the cool blue-gray sky, their paper-thin beating out a tiny rhythm. They're so close, I can see through their wings.

They're just doing what they do: fluttering around, helping keep the balance by eating insects.

In the distance, two flocks of Canadian geese form two silhouetted arrows pointing northwest, squawking loudly, doing what they do.



The grass is high. Despite my allergies, I am not allergic to hay and have always loved the smell of a fresh roll of it drying in the sun.

Ah, it's definitely mid-August. And regardless of my affinity for fall and winter, I try to appreciate mid-August, even when it's 100 degrees.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?



In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Every time I am on the water, I think this same thought: with every touch of the tip of my paddle, I am disturbing an entire universe. From fishes to turtles to plant life to the tiniest micro-organism, just the simple, slightest movement of my paddle stirs it all.

At first, I never want this evening to end.

Finally back in my kayak. I threw caution to the wind this evening and headed out to the water. How I've missed my time on the water, paddle in hand, the steady rocking hip-to-hip row, row, row in perfect rhythm, nothing out there but me and several hundred species of animal.

I am rowing like this, poised and peaceful, simultaneously calling to a Bard owl somewhere in a forested distance and chasing a Blue Heron when I receive the phone call.

I had my second CAT scan Monday, the follow-up appointment with the doctor today.

In the office, the radiologist hadn't yet given the reading to my doctor. She promised a call, reassuring that, more than likely, the abscess in my pelvis had receded.

"It is very unlikely that it's grown," she said.

Schools of tiny water insects skim across the lake in zig-zag formation as I answer the call.

"Remember how I said it was very unlikely that the abscess has grown?" she says from the other end of the line.

"Well, true to form, you're the one case to go against the odds."

A painted turtle paddles under the surface, his thick, clawed feet moving like slow rudders. My heart sinks.

"The report says the abscessed area has grown since the last scan, now over four centimeters," she continues.



I sit with the setting sun for a long time tonight. It was an amazing sunset - like orange sherbet scooped from God's own hand. I cried on the water. I felt and feel all these emotions: regret, fear, anger, sadness, helplessness.

There's nothing I can do.

Then, I hear the owl again, calling to me from the same forested distance - only now it's closer. I'm reminded, from nature, of just who I am, and more importantly, that it's not up to me. Again, I need this message.

The owl calls, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you.." in the infamous monkey-like call of the Bard owl. He asks me a good question.

I am floating in this water. And though I can paddle, steer, stay afloat, I am not in control. It's not up to me. The boat holds me, its buoyancy sturdy and strong. I let my weight rest in it, and let go.

Not up to me

Bring on the dancing horses

I've had enough.

Still "infectious," still sick, I cast aside all this "rest" to retreat into the things that will make me heal the most: my children, and the lake.


Elise at the county fair - ride em cowgirl!

Saturday night, I took my girls to the fair, walked for hours, looking at the beautiful lights and all the animals.


The dizzying array of lights on the ferris wheel - our favorite

We saw the sights, road the rides, ate the cotton candy.


Not sure what Elise was thinking here, but that horse she chose does look pretty ominous


Sophie on the merry go round




Elise stuffing herself with sugar! Cotton Candy! Yum!

Along the way, we stopped to smell the flowers:




Hibiscus


One of my favorites: the Tiger Lilly

And tonight, Sophie and I headed out to the lake, just the two of us, a mom & daughter date night. We floated along together in my kayak and witnessed the most spectacular sunset. Fish jumped, but otherwise, the lake was smooth as glass.



While floating along in a peaceful bliss, Sophie and I came across a young raccoon shaking on the shore. Clearly sick with distemper or some kind of disease, we floated up to it, his feable human-like hands grasping a branch, shaking.

"Oh, mom! He's so cute! Can't we save him!" Sophie pleaded.

This was an opportunity to teach my eldest daughter the one of the hardest lessons of life: it's not up to us.



I thought about this in reference to myself. This infection, getting better, getting worse: it's not up to me, if I lie in bed 24/7 or if I live my life. What will be will be.

It's not up to me. So I let go.

I return to the doctor on Wednesday and will learn then if I need another surgery to clear up infections from the first surgery.

Intervening is sometimes notthe answer.

Sometimes we must just let nature take its course, and live out our lives the best we can, do right by those we can.

But in the meantime, I'm gonna do the things I love, and rejoice in the beauty all around. Life is short; the life of a raccoon, even shorter. It's no coincidence when we first spotted the raccoon, he was limping along weakly, making his way to rest on the shore facing the setting sun. One beautiful final view, indeed.