Where there is quiet, slowness, even boredom, there is a grand spaciousness for noticing.
This weekend we’ve been at our cabin in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Above the front door is a sign that reads, “Relax and Enjoy, You’re on Cabin Time Now.” I’ve been coming to this place my entire life and as I’ve grown and changed, as the cabin itself has grown and changed, and our family along with it, one thing remains the same—time moves differently here. There is margin all around for a certain slower, elusive experience of time.
While the kids were occupied with Dad, I had some rare time alone on the deck with a book, a cup of iced coffee, and a view of the glistening lake. I’m reading The Book of Nature by Barbara Mahaney, an awe-inspiring exploration of the ways nature unfolds its pages to us, inviting us into wonder and encounters with the Divine.
As I read, I paused often to look at the sanctuary all around. My senses were fully attuned to the environment within and around me. I noticed myself resetting and recentering.
When there are no obligations except to care for yourself and the space around you, there is room enough for languid moments on a swing, just watching the lake and listening to the buzzing boats and trilling birds. There's room enough to sweep the walks and wipe the counters with gratitude and even joy. There’s room enough for thoughts to wander away from the concerns of ordinary life and work, to find rest and inspiration in the extra space.
The lapping of the lake calms my busy mind. I take slow, deep breaths, letting the fragrance of pine and soil fill me up. I feel grounded here where family tradition meets the sacred rhythms of the natural world. I'm embraced by the earth, not merely existing on it. I'm content and free to pay attention.
I watched a dragonfly nymph clinging wetly to the deck railing after emerging from the lake. On another wall, a dragonfly has recently completed metamorphosis, leaving its brittle shell behind. It rests before taking flight. Then, I see a chipmunk crouching ahead of me, devouring an entire dragonfly in less than a minute. I’m horrified, but I can’t look away. Did you know chipmunks eat dragonflies? I didn’t. I watched with unexpected fascination and delight to see something new and unexpected here, in this most-familiar-place.
While preparing for a family canoe ride, we witnessed a Northern Pike carrying a smaller fish in its jaws in the shallows near our dock. We canoed across the lake while the kids trailed hands and sticks in the water. We greeted loons diving for fish and lifted our eyes up, up, up to see a bald eagle, perched atop a regal white pine.
It’s too cold for swimming, but we went in anyway. The kids insisted, and besides—it’s family tradition to get in the water at least once, even if it’s only May. A quick dip in the icy water is a baptism of sorts, the lake a font, giving way to rebirth and renewal.
And when I woke up too early, because one of the kids needed the bathroom and the sunrise was blasting through the windows, I tucked him back in then went outside in my pajamas, standing on the dock for just a minute to take in the glory all around. A few hushed moments of noticing, before returning to my own warm bed.
Now I’m home again, with an extra day to spare before the rush of work and school, appointments and to-dos, carries us forward. I’m still stretching out time, carrying the lake’s tranquility deep within my being, feeling grateful and nourished by a weekend of paying attention.
—NK