Our sixteen year old granddaughter will be spending most of the summer at camp. Each summer she has spent a longer time at Camp Widjiwagan, and more and more of that time is canoeing in the Boundary Waters. This year she and other wilderness women will be on trail for twenty-one days.
My husband and I took her out for dinner the other night before she left for camp, and we so enjoyed the company of this wonderful young woman. We talked colleges and her interest in journalism and friends and Game of Thrones (I was silent during that part of the conversation!) It occurs to me I didn't ask her what she was reading or what books she will take with her to camp. How could I have missed that key question. Obviously, the evening was not long enough!
The next day I found myself thinking about something she said. She talked about the days and weeks of canoeing when she and her companions rarely, if ever, see anyone else, and they have no idea of what may be happening in the rest of the world. No idea. They paddle and portage and pitch their tents oblivious to any outside events. They know when the sun rises, and they watch the sun to know when it is time to find a place for the night. They listen to their bodies and watch the natural signs around them.
In other words, they live in the present. That certainly doesn't mean they don’t prepare for this journey. They carefully calculate what food and equipment to bring. They follow maps of the Boundary Waters as a guide and have the benefit of an experienced counsellor. And they have as a major goal--to return safely to camp on a specific day, and that takes planning, cooperation, and collaboration.
But hour by hour with each canoe stroke they live in the present.
Richard Rohr says, "To be a contemplative is to trust deep time." I don't know if any of these young women strive to be a contemplative, but I do think each of them at least brushes shoulders with deep time on those days untouched by outside perspectives, interferences, or distractions.
I think it is possible to experience moments of deep time, even in our everyday lives. The other day I was mixing the batter for strawberry shortcake. The kitchen was hot, and I was eager to cross this task off my list, but soon the stirring and blending of butter and sugar and beaten egg and the milk infused with minced lemon balm from the garden felt contemplative. Baking this cake became an entryway to deep time.
The original recipe was my grandmother's, and I thought about her picking the strawberries from her garden and baking this cake in her kitchen much hotter than mine. I thought about my personal touch, adding herbs, lavender or lemon balm or mint, to the batter. I remembered greeting the goats and llamas, as I walked to my large herb garden at Sweetwater Farm. Now I have a few pots of herbs on our patio, but the smells are the same. The pleasures of those days remain in my heart.
I have fixed this shortcake many times, served it to many people, brought it as a dessert for many gatherings. I thought about the stories shared, the laughter lifted into the air, while eating this shortcake. Soon I would serve this to other loved ones. More connections, more memories would be made. I mixed gratitude and love into the batter before placing the pan into the oven.
A moment of deep time. A moment of being awake to the presence of Spirit. A moment of separation from the pull of cares and crisis and the need to know the latest and the bleakest.
How glorious that our granddaughter recognizes the gift of those moments. She may not know it yet as deep time, but someday she will. With every stroke of the canoe paddle, she is carving a place in her heart for moments of deep time.
An Invitation
When have you experienced deep time. I would love to know.
Here we are in the last week of August. I can hear you saying, "Where has summer gone?" I know where most of my summer has gone--into my book project. I have spent the bulk of these summer days in my garret. I don't regret that, but I can't recall another summer in which I have felt so focused.
What about you? As you think about this summer, has there been a focus? When summer stretched in front of you, what did you imagine? Did you think about how you intended to live in this summer? If so, how has that worked out? Did life intervene and change the course of your summer or did you surrender to the summer breezes and allow the days to take you where they would?
What surprises did this summer hold for you? Any new directions enter your life?
Early this summer my husband and I spent a few days in Door County, Wisconsin. For many years that is where we have gone for rest and relaxation. When we have wanted a "time-out," Door County is where we wanted to be. We have gathered family and friends there over the years, and one summer we rented a house for a month. I stayed there the whole time, and Bruce joined me for long weekends. It was heaven.
This most recent time, as wonderful as it was, especially spending time with good friends who live there, we felt a slight shift. One day we took the ferry to Washington Island to see the new lavender fields and shop and the good bookstore and one of Bruce's all-time favorite coffee shops, Red Cup Cafe, but we also found ourselves wondering what it would be like to spend a week or even longer there, as opposed to just a day. A more isolated time.
We have loved the combination of good restaurants and shops and galleries on the peninsula, but much of that no longer seemed to draw us. We began to have "been there, done that" feelings. What seemed to appeal more was settling in a simple and quiet cottage with a water view. We imagined ourselves spending our days with our books, fixing simple meals, walking the shore, napping, and not much else. That feels like a gentle switch in direction.
Now here's the next switch in direction. When we drove north to Ely, Minnesota, to pick up our granddaughter from camp, I could feel a pull, a tug. A yearning. The sparkling blue water and shorelines where cabins and homes were rarely visible welcomed me. I felt another world open up in front of my eyes --and in my heart. I felt both a serene awakening.
Our orientation for many years has been Wisconsin. My parents owned a wonderful home on Teal Lake in northern Wisconsin, and many summer weekends and winter ones, too, our family gathered there. When we lived in Ohio, we often headed to Door County, in spite of the distance, making our Madison years even more special because of the easier access to Door County.
Now we are in Minnesota again. My parents' sold the Teal Lake home many years ago, and we are again further away from Door County. It is time for a change of direction--due north, it seems.
We look forward to this change in direction, to exploring areas where we have not been for a long time or not ever. My Dad tells me I was in Ely when I was a little girl. 2? 3? And Bruce remembers camping in the Boundary Waters when he was around 10. I guess it has been long enough to consider forming new memories, new impressions, and to bring who we are now into a new direction.
I am not much of an outdoor person. I won't be canoeing in the Boundary Waters or going on strenuous hikes. What I imagine, however, is similar to how I envisioned us spending our days on Washington Island with its much slower pace: reading our books, fixing simple meals, walking the shore, napping. And meditating, praying, spending time in quiet reflection.
The change in direction is not only one of place, but of focus. The gentle change in direction, it seems, is towards the inner life of spirit.
An Invitation
Are you noticing any change of direction in your life? I would love to know.
Our sixteen year old granddaughter will be spending most of the summer at camp. Each summer she has spent a longer time at Camp Widjiwagan, and more and more of that time is canoeing in the Boundary Waters. This year she and other wilderness women will be on trail for twenty-one days.
