It’s summer. We’re vaccinated. The world is slowly opening up again. That means we can go places and do things—which requires wearing bras and washing our hair. This also means travel. Whoop whoop! Travel is one of my most favorite things
I’ve spent the past two weeks away from home, on the road, living not out of a suitcase, but a plastic crate— because it slides perfectly under the bunk in my little travel trailer, Daphne. The first week of my journey was pure bliss. Driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline drive with the love of my life, taking in breathtaking views of mountains and valleys. We camped every night, snuggling up under the stars next to a cozy campfire, watching as the moon slowly gorged herself on summer. We hiked through forests, clamored up waterfalls and swam in mountain lakes.
The second week stands in stark contrast. This past spring, my octogenarian parents moved to assisted living. My four siblings and I are now faced with the task of cleaning out their house after 50 years of living and raising their family there. I’m still processing a million feels from this monumental and unfinished task that so far has included a twenty and a thirty-yard dumpster—both full.
I sauntered into these adventures like a diva of daily practice, congratulating myself on how well I would stay the course with my rituals and routines. I planned my weekly missives to that effect. Then life actually happened. It included slow and luxurious mornings in the woods but also long and sleepless nights in a squeaky childhood bed. I wasn’t in my “real” life, with predictable work, obligations and to-do lists. Some days were leisurely saunters, others were route marches.
It became immediately and abundantly clear that if I wanted to be present in my surroundings and situations, I would have to change the routines that ushered me into these days.
This time of year, the birds start their symphony before 5am. This doesn’t mean I rise to that occasion, but the sound stirs me into a semi-waking state. In my blissful fiberglass camping bubble, I let the cool morning wash over me. I take a bath in the breeze and birdsong. This is some of the best meditation I know. (The absolute best comes later in the day when I meander along lush forest trails redolent with moss and ferns).
I don’t read emails. I don’t read a book. I sit in my camp chair, sip my tea and stare into the trees. I want to absorb as much of the natural world as I can: the dampness of the soil, the slight scent of decaying vegetation, the rustling of small woodland creatures, and the promise of a day ahead with no obligations save for miles of hiking trails and the possibility of gas station ice cream.
My morning routine for camping Rubi is about centering myself in the joy of wildness, filling up my natures stores so I can call upon them when I need grounding.
The portion of my adventure that took place in my childhood house is a different story. Daphne the trailer is parked in her summer home in a sister’s yard. My days are excruciatingly long; demanding both physically, mentally and emotionally, compounded by very little sleep. I’d be lying in bed, courting sleep like a desperate drunk at last call when the first birds started stirring. The neighbor transformed her backyard into an enchanted butterfly habitat. As a result, birds flock to this micro-forest. At the first hint of a new day, they erupt into a dawn chorus. It’s a harsh call to start a new day when my brain hadn’t let the old one go.
I’d scrape myself out of bed, stepping over yet more piles of keep/toss/donate decisions awaiting me on my way out the front door. It took approximately one morning for my sisters and I to fall into an amicable routine: Mary and I would walk around the neighborhood for a few miles or until we were given a bear warning, while Kathy slept in before driving into town for coffee and bagels.
These modified routines are not the stringent reading-writing-meditating of my “real life,” but are just as important. During my morning walks I reflect on the growth and changes of the trees around the neighborhood. What were once nascent saplings are now towers of strength, providing shade, beauty and oxygen. My tender brain and psyche need a solid reminder that it’s not just the trees that grew and evolved, that spread out roots, stretched to the sky and opened themselves to the sunlight. I underwent the same transformation.
This all takes work.
And sometimes, I need to lighten my morning load to either accommodate the heaviness or match the levity of the day.
I’d love to hear how you change up your daily practices when your whole routine changes.
See you for midweek snack break.
I’ve been out of pocket, too—and totally given up my daily practices in exchange for others. Glad for the break but happy to be back to the routine…