In which we dive in.
Yesterday was moving day. The day on which we gather ourselves en masse for a week away from home and, more importantly, work. There are groceries to collect, the packing up of all the essentials for a week at the lake. Usually we figure we can have a meal in town and pick up any forgotten necessities. Usually things are more casual and fluid, especially as the kids have become adults in recent years. But this year is different.
We hunker down.
Moving day, even on a good year, breeds small anxieties in my heart and this year the spin cycle of the mind is even more active than usual. I am loathe to leave the ocean, but excited for the relatively warm, fresh waters of Long Pond. I worry we will forget something, worry I’m not doing enough to be of assistance to our little family unit, worry I’m getting behind in my art work, becoming lazy and complacent here in this vacation-land paradise. I worry my country is breathing it’s final dying gasps, worry about the ripple effects of this damned virus…… I won’t bore you with all of the worries, but you get the general picture. This is my brain on transitions of most kinds, what can I say? I am only human, a work in progress.
There is nothing for a wave of worries quite like playing a bit of music. Good for the soul in so many ways – perhaps merely the tonal qualities of music in general and the necessity of managing ones breath as a flute player specifically. One of my nagging worries yesterday is that I might miss the precious zoom calls which fall on the very hour we are due to be arriving here at our little rented cabin.
But, as with seemingly everything on this gift of a journey this summer, it all works out. Our rental allows for a bit of an early arrival, which means I can attend these conversations after all. My computer remembers the household wireless, so no technical glitches either. With two back to back zoom calls, I get to see the faces and hear the voices of my musical mates from the Swannanoa gathering which shores up the heart in these heavy times. We learn a couple of new tunes, all the while catching up with one another, with hopes to do so in person next summer. But who knows? With a bit of music, and the knowledge that my friends scattered around the world are ok for now, my unsettled heart shifts back into center. I am grateful.
Soon we are unpacked and a simple dinner is in the works. By tradition, we feast on steamed lobster, bread and a salad on our first night at ‘camp’.
After dinner, we load onto the boat for a sunset cruise and a swim.
That’s one way to wash away the lobster juice.
We are welcomed back to this magical place by the mournful calls of loons echoing back and forth across the pond.
Sunset is miraculous and beautiful over the Kennebec Highlands, as it is most days. And we marvel.
The evening descends. Some play games up at the house, others opt to watch the stars come out and listen to the loons down by the dock. My anxieties are by now washed away by the gifts of this magical afternoon and evening.
It is now Sunday morning and there is a full, soft day ahead of us. Each of us keen to soak it all in here together. We all know there was a time, mere weeks ago, when we weren’t sure if we might even make this trip happen. And so we are doubly grateful to simply be here this year, now more than ever.
Thanks to you, dear readers for coming along. I really appreciate all of the emails and messages you’ve sent encouraging me to keep the updates coming. I aim to do so, hopefully with more artwork as this week unfurls……