Keeper of Secrets

 

The Mossy Ridge trail called to me this week and on Thursday Tractor and I went and hiked it.  It was a cooler day for July in Tennessee – only 75 by mid-morning – but the humidity was still high, much to my and Tractor’s chagrin.  The air here is so different than Michigan’s.  There, it’s clear and crisp like a new dollar bill.  Here, a warm bowl of oatmeal; tasty and good, yes, but also heavy and thick.  There are adjustments to be made for sure. A building back up to my Tennessee lung capacity amidst the “thick”; the first big hill told me so.

And as Tractor and I made our way, I was reminded of why I have embraced Tennessee as my home for what’s now going on 25 years (!).  As I looked up from the trail and took in the panoramic views around me, I was touched time and time again by the lush beauty of the Tennessee hills and forest; the quiet embrace the canopy of trees provide; the tranquil and safe space the parks provide for the many deer, birds and other animals who reside here.

But even more than that, these trails know me, in many ways more intimately than most friends and family. The hard packed soil, the whispering leaves, the sharp inclines and gentle downward slopes: they have absorbed it all. And I’ve left nothing unsaid. Since I first discovered the parks over twenty years ago - thanks to a good friend who helped me navigate the very rocky emotional terrain of a break-up by getting me to go on hikes with her at Percy Warner Park - I’ve been smitten.

It’s been truer to me than any boyfriend.  I’ve laid it all on the line, shared every little detail of every little hiccup, train wreck, and victory in my life.  And in return the trail has been the very best listener, never judged me, helped me weigh the pros and cons of any given situation, given me perspective . . . sustained me.  No wonder I am called back time and time again.

Sometimes I go begrudgingly. Sometimes I can’t get there fast enough.  But as I settle into the trail, the familiar rhythm returns to me. I’m at home inside myself again. Sorting. Dumping. Blessing. Breathing. Becoming bigger. Becoming one. On the trail, all is well.  Or will be by the time I’m done.  Because I leave it all out there.  And the trail accepts it without so much as a sigh.

There’s a spot on the Mossy Ridge right when you begin where a house used to be. All that’s left now are a couple stone steps and a still-beautiful chimney. It reminds me that lives were lived here. It knows way more than me – this land, this place, the trails. They are the constant; they always remain. Even when we don’t. Because the fact is, we are all just passing through.

And that’s exactly why, for the past twenty years, I’ve headed to the parks. In high times, in low times, and often just to walk and talk with a friend (the very best play date!). Because it is always there for me. It is wizened and tough, loving and strong. And it deeply re-connects me to this physical earth and the intuition that I am part of that, will return to that.  Just as I return to the trail time and time again.

In this place, my secrets are safe. My soul is at home.  I know who I am.  I imagine one of those old, wise Tennessee oak trees whispering across the miles to a Michigan cousin: “She is good. Planting deep roots. Raising a beautiful family. Becoming more of who she’s meant to be each passing year. She’s a keeper and we love her like our own. All is well.”

Truly, all is well.

Deeply Rooted

Leaving here is never easy. My summers seem to begin and end at Lakeside Camp on Higgins Lake. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.  Nowhere else I want to take my kids. Nashvillians flock to the beach where it’s sticky, buggy, and humid, humid, humid as I head north each year to the lake, where my great-great-grandfather built the first structure with Chief David Shoppenagon so many years ago. It’s cool at night and in the mornings (like grab a sweater cool), the water is crystal clear, and the air is imminently breathable.

My kids are the sixth generation in my family to be called, summer after summer, year after year, to this magical place. They have the bug. They get it. There’s no place they’d rather be either.  They love the old family cottage with all its antiquities.   The “chauffer’s” room off the garage where their beloved uncle stays.  The “bell” upstairs in their great-grandmother’s bedroom that used to call the maid (believe me, no maids around these days!!  Unless her name is “Mom” . . . ).  The many pieces of art and hand-painted furniture my grandmother carefully crafted.  The photos and artwork that adorn the walls share the history of those who have loved this place . . . love it still.

It’s big but not fancy. Thoughtful but not over-the-top.  Full of character and imperfections that are a hundred years in the making.  There are occasional mice and spiders.  We still make ice in trays.  The hot water takes forever to come through the pipes.  I don’t think the kitchen’s been updated since the cottage was built in 1928. And there’s the dreaded swimmer’s itch (which I like because perhaps it keeps the tourists away!). For me, every bit of this is part of the charm.

When you come here, you step back in time.  Nothing changes. And we like it that way.  It’s a place to return to.  To relive old memories. To create new ones.  To share with your family and kids. To dream about sharing with your grandkids.  It’s a place where technology is not tantamount (though our internet connection is working just fine, sometimes much to my chagrin as I walk in and see my son on his iPad checking baseball scores) and a walk on the Front Path or on one of the fire trails can recharge your batteries more profoundly than any Facebook status update you might read. 

It’s a place where the eagles fly high and you can see the tree from which they perch to oversee their domain.  It’s a place where chipmunks run rampant and eat peanuts straight out of your hand.  It’s a place where young and old alike hang out together at a cocktail party or the ball field to simply visit, sharing stories and sharing lives. Last summer on more than one occasion my then 11-year-old son would say, “I’m going down to Cousin Lucy’s!”  She happens to be 93, but she loves the Chicago Cubs as much as Taggart, so there they were - two peas in a pod - cheering on their beloved Cubs. 

This week, after the cousins left, and the cottage quieted down to my little family’s slower pace, I took Taggart’s iPad away so that he could actually BE here and experience his time in a deeper way than if he was constantly connecting to his virtual world.  And though he might have groused a bit that first day about withdrawal pains, by the second day, he told me he was glad I had taken it away.  Because he actually enjoys himself more without the constant flirtation and shallow connections his iPad quite often provides.  

Getting quiet and listening to the wind, the waves, the birds (damn crows wake us up early every morning!); paying real attention to my kids and playing games together (Uno anyone?); actually talking and spending time in this extraordinary place . . . it means more to me than any fancy, polished, shiny vacation filled with a busy-ness that can often be unfulfilling and does nothing to restore my sense of wonder. 

No, I’m about filling up my and my kids’ love tanks with the stuff that will serve them long into their futures – that will keep them fulfilled and happy and full of the right stuff for years to come. That I get to do that while on “vacation” in my favorite place in the world: priceless.

The following quote by Christopher Morley has floated around camp for as long as I remember; many cottages have it framed (in my mom’s handsome calligraphy no less!) as a reminder of what this place means to so many of us:

To be deeply rooted in a place that has meaning is perhaps the best gift a child can have.  If that place has beauty and a feeling of permanence, it may suggest to him unawares that sense of identity with this physical earth which is the humblest and happiest of life’s intuitions.

This special place, this small dot on the northern shores of Higgins Lake chosen by my ancestors over a hundred years ago as a place to hunt and fish and spend time with family, it means different things to each of us.  But the two constants we might all agree on are its beauty and its sense of permanence.

I get it. My kids get it. And I will always be grateful for that. 

Truly - to be deeply rooted in a place that has meaning - there’s no better gift.

True North

 

We have been in Northern Michigan for the past few weeks and my blog has been still.  And though I wish I could say that stillness has also extended to me and that there has been great introspection and deep contemplation on my part, I would be remiss.   Because though I love this place, find it one of the most beautiful on Earth, and live to get here, loathe to leave . . . it’s a small world all its own – and it can suck you in and swallow you whole, if you’re not careful.

Unless you are VERY intentional about it, finding yourself here – hearing yourself here – can be a bit of a challenge. With one hundred year old memories, opinions and traditions to uphold, being in touch with one’s true North is tricky. Because you have to be vigilant. And honestly, who wants to be vigilant while on “vacation”??

Who wants to have to watch every little step and move and make sure you’re carefully eating and dutifully exercising and proudfully parenting and religiously writing?  “Not I!” said the happy little pig.  And off she went about her vacation, just doing the best she knew how.

But there were moments amidst her days – as she played tennis with her kids or rode her bike the 23 miles around the lake or walked along the Front Path –that her true North beckoned. She was reminded of what mattered in her life and what was really important and it was these deep breaths that infused her vacation with what she needed most.

The reminders came in small packages – a walk with a cousin, a tiny daisy, a perfectly intact puff ball, a tiny seed of a pine tree beginning to sprout, a text from her husband – and she was glad for them. They reminded her of this: Amidst the busyness of life, of vacation, of our full days . . . God is everywhere.  If we are open, if we can hear, if we can see.

If you cannot see God in a blade of grass,

If you cannot see God in a flower,

If you cannot see God in a rainbow,

If you cannot see God in the eyes of another being . . .

You cannot find God in a book of religion.

                             Deepak Chopra

NAMASTE.