Sunrise Cycling

With the onset of fall, the days seem to shorten at an alarming speed. At this northern latitude, by the fall equinox we tip the balance to more darkness than light each day. By now we are already down to just 9 1/2 hours with the sun above the horizon.

I mourn the dim mornings which push out my morning workout routine. On cycling days, I wait impatiently until I have just barely enough light to see in front of my bicycle – typically about a half hour before sunrise.

Absent the sun, there is a definite chill in the air. I layer on warm clothes, pull booties over my cycling shoes and don my Happy Hat under my helmet. Ski lobster gloves and a buff complete the ensemble. I shiver as I coast downhill, absent the heat-generating pedaling I need to stay warm. But soon that all fades into the background.

By the time I reach Superior Street, I get my first glimpse. The sky begins to widen, and color radiates above the trees. I can’t wait to get to the shore to see the full effect, and I’m richly rewarded by the time I reach London Road. The sun is still low enough to generate rich colors that bounce off the clouds, paint their undersides and send reflections across Lake Superior.

My favorite stretch is from the Lakewalk tunnel through the newly completed path through Brighton Beach. Despite the cold, I have to stop, straddle my bike and pull off one glove to take pictures. I am compelled to record this majesty.

But the real impact is more personal. I can’t help but be thankful for the beauty of Nature. The sense of wonder fills me with gratitude. How lucky I am to be out here, fit enough to be cycling, able to witness God’s handiwork, healthy enough to do this day after day, and to live in close proximity to Lake Superior’s many moods. A day that starts like this just has to be good.

No two mornings are the same. As I flick through my photos, the words that come to mind are Fire and Ice. The brilliant red-orange mornings are balanced by more subtle blues and purples turning the lake a cold steely gray.

When the sun finally makes its fiery entrance, the show moves quickly. It doesn’t take long before its radiance overpowers the scene. Dawn has arrived, colors fade and light begins to bathe the world.

The warmth of those powerful rays eases my way up the shore, reviving my fingers and toes, glowing on my face. I’m not sure how long I can keep up this fall routine. But for now, each day I make it out for sunrise cycling is a gift.

Where has it gone?

Shrieks of laughter emanate from Rich’s office. High pitched voices interrupt one another vying for attention. I hear splashing, squealing, complaining and taunting. The sounds of children playing. Our children. Long, long ago. A smile travels across my face.

Rich is finally tackling the long avoided task of converting all our old family video tapes to digital format. Just finding the equipment to do it was a challenge. He searched hard before finding an outdated working VCR player on eBay, and installed a conversion software kit on his PC. He then hauled in the huge box of tapes that has been hibernating in our garage. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

This conversion requires playing each tape, one by one. The drama is displayed in a small square on his computer screen complete with sound, while the software creates a digital file. Miniature Karens, Carls and Eriks parade across the screen – playing, blowing out birthday candles, building forts in the woods at the cabin, throwing sand out of the sandbox, and singing. The stuff that makes up a young family’s life.

We didn’t own a video camera for years. Instead, we’d rent a massive camcorder from the video store and let it roll all weekend long just capturing ordinary life with kids. The bad as well as the good, the tantrums along with the tender moments. Sometimes there were guest appearances. “Oh look whose here now!” Rich yells from his office, and I go in to see my parents or his – looking young and lively, poignant as they have long since passed. Or our beloved long-term day care provider, the kids’ cousins, our Czech daughter. It’s a treasure-trove of memories.

Day after day these scenes play as Rich works his way through the box. The cheery voices get older and younger again as he grabs tapes in random order. But that’s not all that strikes me.

Rich usually did the filming with an animated running commentary throughout the action. I’d appear on camera with the kids, or as a voice in the background. And occasionally I’d take over to capture Rich with the kids. Our voices sound younger too. And there is an element of playfulness, of engagement with the kids, of a lively family life. One I’d forgotten existed.

We’ve been on our own for years now, having launched our three grown children and adopting the good life as retirees. We’ve become accustomed to our well ordered life, with plenty of time to indulge our own passions, often out and about individually all day long and reconnecting over dinner.

And then came Covid, topped by Rich’s heart condition. Life narrowed. Social contact shriveled. Travel ceased.

As Covid drones on and Rich slowly recovers, I have begun to feel that the joy of life has been sucked out of me. That hunkering down and withdrawing from the world has dampened my lust for life. That I may even be getting accustomed to the small circle we have drawn around our sphere of activity. The quiet nights at home, drawn into the lives of British or Australian TV series.

Spending time with my kids and grandkids only seems to reinforce this feeling. Their vibrant family lives feel in such contrast to my own. I do my best to soak up the giggles and the snuggles. To relish playing games, building with Legos, concocting Paw Patrol rescues and reading aloud. To find time to connect one-on-one with my kids and let their resourcefulness inspire me.

Hearing Rich and me on those tapes brings it all back. We too were fun-loving parents at one time. We played with our kids, engaged with them on their level and had great adventures together. I am heartened by this evidence. And I hear its message reinforced with each tape that plays through Rich’s computer, sending its voices out to find me.

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I can’t help but wonder where the playfulness has gone? When did we get so serious? Is this what happens when you grow old? My spirit rebels, knowing it doesn’t have to be this way. I will fight back.

Surrounded by Love

It seemed a simple request. Our whole family planned to gather in the Twin Cities for the wedding of a dear family friend. Pulling from Milwaukee, Seattle and Duluth as well as the Cities, it has become increasingly rare that we can assemble our numbers in one place. So it was the perfect opportunity to get a family photo for our Christmas card. Too many times I leave thinking, “Oh shoot! We forgot to get a family picture!” I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

My daughter, Karen, whose bedrooms would fill hosting most of us, had it covered. “Mom, leave it to me. I have a friend who does fabulous family photography. I’ll arrange it all with her.”

“I don’t want fancy. Not in our wedding clothes, I want to do this beforehand, just informal, outside.”

“You got it,” Karen said.

Karen sent out clothing photos ahead of time. “Here’s a palate of colors to work with,” she told family members. She followed with “I don’t want this to be stressful for anyone, so if you don’t have quite the these colors – bring something close and we’ll roll with it.”

We all assembled in French Park at noon, and looked remarkably color coordinated without appearing to have done so. As we trooped down the path and crossed the bridge over a small creek, I looked back to see the stream of family members happily ambling along. My heart swelled, just seeing my family stretch into the distance. Nobody was chafing at having to dress up. Kids were being kids. Grown-ups loosely herded them along.

Katherine, the photographer, met us in the picnic area by the lake. Straight away she began engaging the kids, at the same time scouting good locations to shoot in the brilliant noonday sun. We had asked for a variety of family groupings, and she mustered the troops to mix and match the pairings and keep things going.

Instead of being a tedious exercise in gaining cooperation, of teasing out smiles, of cajoling kids to come sit still, we were in constant motion. We giggled and teased. We tickled and chased. We squeezed, climbed trees, held kids upside down and played together. Laughter reigned.

It felt SOOOO good!

All the while, Katherine captured the moments. Lots of them. The traditional and the silly. The poignant and the unexpected. The cute and the lovely. Not surprisingly, the kids stole the show, but I still got my Christmas card photo – if only I can decide which one to use!

It turned out to be the highlight of my weekend, despite all the other moments spent together. And I have all the photos to bring back the joy of that sunny Saturday gathering.

You needn’t take my word for it. You be the judge.

Thank you Kate Dawn Photography, for surrounding me with love!

For more of her work, visit her Facebook page.

Sunrise, Sunset

Being a volunteer lighthouse keeper has its perks, particularly in the off-duty hours. Fortunately, no matter what month I am at Crisp Point Lighthouse, sunrise and sunset fall squarely within my free time. And I make sure I am at the ready to witness and photograph both. Highlights of each day.

Being keepers in September this year means a more sociable hour for sunrise. Scrambling out of the tent by 6:45am still nets me a front row seat to an inspiring light show. I start on the west side of the lighthouse, watching the oranges infiltrate the clouds and silhouette the tower.

Making my way past the lighthouse to the opposite side, I turn back to watch the sun crawl its way down the lighthouse, illuminating it with the glow of the low morning sun and reflect on the water.

Another morning delivers fiery red hues that mutate into pink cotton candy in the clouds overhead, just 13 minutes later. I never tire of this scene. It’s worth the brisk morning chill, the sleep still in my eyes and the fact that I haven’t had a chance to brush my teeth yet.

At the other end of the day, sunsets provide lingering entertainment that only starts with the sun dipping below the clouds.

The real show begins five minutes later when the sun drops below the horizon and shoots its brilliance into the clouds above, and intensifies with the accompaniment of crashing waves.

The variety is never ending. Some mornings and evenings are duds, scuttled by clouds blanketing the horizon. Others lack clouds completely, robbing the sun of targets to reflect its brilliant rays. But when the conditions are right, it’s downright magic and never the same twice. God’s majesty at work.

Photographing these scenes is half the fun, the game of seeing if I can replicate the image. In the past, I’d point my Canon Powershot SX40 camera at these displays, struggling to get the settings right, focus carefully, keep the camera still and hope for a good photo. Usually with mixed results. This time the camera stays in the car. Instead, I whip out my iPhone 12 Pro Max and hold it up for the shot. Click, I got it. Click, another for good measure. Click, catch the changing light. It certainly lowers my stress level, enhancing my appreciation for these solar events. And I have to say, that phone does a credible job and is always at the ready in my pocket. It’s my new standard to ensure I capture those sunrise, sunset moments.

Sharing the Light

The incessant wind drives tumbling waves onto the shore, cresting in white foaminess that contrasts the water’s deep blue. The morning chill on the beach is mitigated by the warm sun on my back. In my peripheral vision the tall tower stands guard over this sacred spot. Good morning, Lake Superior. Hello, Crisp Point Lighthouse. I’m back!

It’s been two years since I was last here. Our streak of 7 annual stints as lighthouse keepers was interrupted by Covid, like so many aspects of our lives. Even this year’s trip was a leap of faith as the virus continues to rage. But armed with vaccines, masking and distancing protocols in place, we felt willing to answer the call.

With the long slow drive down the infamous 18 miles of rough dirt road, the world began to recede. Shaded by towering pines and leaves rimmed with a touch of color, weaving through forest regrowth, I anxiously awaited that first sight of the lighthouse. The early morning calm and solitude of the site reminded me how much I love this place.

And yet it’s different this year. With extra duties imposed by Covid, we invited our friends Jon and Beth to join us. They were willing and eager participants, even knowing the rustic camping conditions – or perhaps even because of them. We erected our tents in unison before the onslaught of visitors – ours on the sand, theirs on the bed of their truck. A quick climb up the lighthouse clenched the sale as we gazed out over the miles of sand and rock beach stretching to the horizon in both directions, and took in the endless blue expanse of Lake Superior. Welcome, Jon and Beth, to our little slice of heaven.

The “Keeper’s Residence” below the lighthouse
View from the catwalk

The arrival of visitors plunged us into our duties, manning the Visitor Center, dispensing information about the lighthouse, selling souvenirs and cleaning jobs. Jon and Beth quickly became ambassadors, greeting folks, learning where they were from and how they found the lighthouse. It was a novel experience to be able to trade off and spell one another for bursts of freedom to walk the beach, climb the tower or read on a bench overlooking the beach. And the constant companionship was especially welcome in the evenings when we’d share dinner and linger by the bonfire. I knew the invitation had been a success when Jon and I manned the campstove cooking breakfast under an awning in the rain, and Jon leaned over to say, “Even this is fun!”

Jon restocking the bathrooms
Molly and Rich tending the shop
Ladies walking the beach
Dinner together
Campfire time

I admit it took a bit of adjusting. I had always equated our off-hours at the lighthouse with solitude. Morning walks and reflection, followed by time spent writing by the water. Evenings mesmerized by the flickering flames and glowing coals after Rich retreated to the tent. Reading while crunched down in the catwalk high above the lapping waves. Rare quite time I intentionally allowed myself in this retreat.

But after over a year of forced seclusion, having company was a treat. We ribbed Jon over his raging battle against the sand on the boardwalks and lighthouse steps. I relished Beth’s company on my morning beach walk, opening our hearts and sharing common woes. They taught me how to be an engaging host. We lent them our LED black light to find Yooperlites (which they did), and Rich gave them tips on seeing the Northern Lights (which failed to show). Laughter reigned. It felt so good.

I meant to consult Rich, but forged ahead without it. “Do you want to come again next year?” The answer came out in unison, “Yes!” It’s settled. We’ll be back next year, sharing the light with good company.

She’s still my Mom

It was 10 years ago today, but I remember the moment vividly. It was a crisp summer morning, with blue sky and fluffy clouds drifting over the back yard of our church where we were attending an outdoor service. Rich’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It stopped, then came to life again, so he surreptitiously glanced at the screen. “It’s your mom’s caregiver.” She never called Rich, but my phone was silenced. Our eyes met.

Slipping inside, I dialed her number.  Sue was one of our precious caregivers.  The small dedicated group of women who took Mom into their hearts and adopted her as family.  Who saw that she was dressed exquisitely each morning, and lovingly quaffed her silver-gray hair.  Who enabled Mom to stay in her own home as Alzheimer’s ravaged her memory and 91 years weakened her body.  I’ve forgotten Sue’s words, but the message was clear.  Mom was leaving us. 

We didn’t make it in time.  We hadn’t even reached the edge of the Twin Cities when the next call came from Duluth to tell us she was gone.  As we drove, I made tearful calls to each of the kids to tell them Grandma had died.  Although we had lost her years earlier to dementia, this moment added the burden of finality.

Ten years later I continue to sift through the memories.  Those from my childhood play like an old video in my mind, scenes on a screen that I watch as a smile creeps across my face. High school stirs images of Mom’s unwavering support and high expectations.  College evokes the sense of growing wings, of taking Mom’s life lessons and using them to make my own way in the world.

But it is the adult connections that remain the most vivid.  The years when she was a vibrant senior, independent and actively engaged in life.  When we could plan outings together, share common perspectives, even travel to England together.  If I’m honest, it’s probably when she was in my current stage of life.  She was long past raising her four children, and still had miles to go before it would be our turn to be caretakers for her.  When I think of Mom, I don’t picture her as a lithe young mother, nor as a dependent octogenarian.  I recall her grace, style and spirit as she navigated the world on her own terms in her golden years.

It is a startling realization as I reflect on my own station in life.  Am I making the most of these years?  Is this how my children will remember me, with my own silver-gray hair?  For certain I have inherited that trait from Mom.  I can only hope I carry on more than that.

I still think of Mom each time I pass her house.  I still seek her approval when making decisions.  Still yearn for her presence and knowing smile in the big moments of my life.  I can’t help myself when I wonder what Mom would think, what words of advice she might offer.  Ten years later, she’s still my Mom.

Re-emerging is Hard to Do

My Covid cocoon had become a comfortable, familiar place. While chafing at my restrictions, I also learned to embrace my quieter existence.

I felt safe in my bubble, secure in the control I had acquired over my life. My time was my own to indulge in hours of writing, confident that my plans would not be interrupted. The outside world was held at bay, unable to intrude. While some writers felt crushed by the pandemic, my retirement status allowed me the freedom to forge onward working on my book.

The outdoors was my playground. My running shoes, bike, trail shoes, skis and snowshoes my constant – and virus-free – companions. The opportunities to share those activities with friends, to see others outside, let in a little normalcy that helped balance the isolation.

Family became my only source of close personal contact. The decision to extend our circle to our children and grandchildren was not without its risks, but held overwhelming benefits. Those visits fed my heart and nurtured my need for social interaction.

In the course a year I had adapted to my revised lifestyle. Then suddenly everything changed. Again.

Getting the vaccine was only a baby step. Although I was protected, it was still early in the process, and many people around me – including Rich – were still awaiting vaccination. Those early days didn’t feel much different. Still social distancing, wearing masks and seeing others only outdoors.

Our first fully-vaccinated outing was returning to church. Spread out in every other pew, masked, with small numbers in our little church it felt safe. No coffee fellowship downstairs afterwards, but it was enough to see our friends and fellow church members and worship together in person.

Having friends over for dinner has long been a favorite social activity. We decided we would be comfortable with having one fully vaccinated couple over for dinner at a time. The first evening, sitting down to wine and appetizers at the kitchen island followed by gathering around the dinner table felt like a gift. So did the hugs we felt we could now afford.

The day the governor lifted all the major restrictions came as a shock. I was used to the slow pace of recovery, the gradual loosening of constraints. The idea of flipping a switch and returning full speed felt like too much too soon. In fact, it put a damper on our willingness to venture forth into normalcy. If we were still unwilling to eat in socially distanced restaurant space, we certainly weren’t about to sit in the close proximity of full capacity.

And yet, we developed chinks in our armor. Trying to work out the logistics of a road trip to Seattle to visit our son Erik and his wife Katie in their new home, the specter of air travel began dancing in my head. Justifying arguments followed. “We’re going to have to start sometime.” I pleaded my case, leaving Rich to ponder the idea. “I’ll only go if I can sit up front, have extra leg room and priority boarding,” Rich said. We bought tickets. And flew.

I feel like everything is a test. In the absence of government mandates, I am left to define my own rules. Is it okay to go into the grocery store without a mask? I haven’t yet. Should I get a massage? I did and it worked wonders on both my mind and body. Might I return to the pool at the Y? Maybe, but I have enough summer alternatives for now.

Behaviors I once took for granted now cause me to hesitate. My favorite table in the coffee shop has returned, and beckons each time I stop in for take-out latte. After months of self-protection, it’s hard to know when to relax and where to hold the line.

I’m inclined to cling to some of the life simplifying aspects of the Covid era. My makeup sits untouched in its pouch in the bathroom drawer. Who needs makeup behind a mask? now becomes Who needs makeup? Why would I run to Target to stock up on household supplies when they will deliver to my door for free? I appreciate the time saving travel-free option of attending meetings on Zoom, and wonder how many of those need to resume in person.

There is no returning to normal. Not the old normal, anyway. The new is bound to be a hybrid, hopefully mixing the best of our Covid innovations with good old in-person, face-to-face life. Re-emerging step by step. As best I can.

Adapting in the Ozarks

Life does not always go as planned.

May 2, we pulled out of the driveway, our car laden with bikes, a kayak, hiking shoes and visions of a secluded outdoor vacation in the Ozark Mountains. One year earlier to the day, we expected to board an airplane to Costa Rica to spend two glorious weeks in the rainforest and next to the beach. That didn’t happen, and the rest of the year didn’t pan out as expected either. But we were finally on our way.

We needed this vacation. Mentally, we were eager to escape the scene of anxiety and uncertainty brought on by Rich’s heart surgeries. Physically, we itched to shed our winter layers and don shorts in the warmth of sunshine. Socially, we expected to continue our Covid distancing, but with new scenery.

We targeted a remote cabin in the mountains, an AirBnB that allowed us to be self-sufficient and required only one motel stay en route. How our selection criteria have changed! But we soon discovered that we had fallen short on our research.

The drive into Jasper, Arkansas and ensuing trip to our cabin took us on twisty, windy, steep roads with no shoulders. As we plunged down and back up the mountainsides, it soon became clear that we would not be using our bicycles – if we wanted to live. Crossing the Buffalo River we could see it was gushing with the spring runoff. Fine for floating in groups, maybe, but not so safe for this novice kayaker. More redundant equipment. Oops.

The cabin proved to be perfect, as picturesque as the advertised photos, with views across the forested slopes. I quickly found my happy spot on the deck, where I could linger with my coffee in the morning, and eyed the fire ring for evening bonfires. Just as Covid has retrained us to live differently, the natural beauty that surrounded us would challenge us to rethink how we spent this vacation.

Cabin in the Ozarks
View from cabin deck over Ozark Mountains

Pouring over the extensive list of outdoor pursuits provided by our host, I targeted hikes that we could do together. Rich’s heart limited him to fairly flat routes – another oversight, having chosen to be in the mountains. But we found trails that wound through inspiring rock formations, took us to waterfalls and caves scoured out by rivers. Progress was unhurried, time to appreciate abundant, wildflowers bloomed and we could wear shorts. Occasionally I scampered up to higher elevations while Rich waited. We were even able to combine a birding and hiking outing.

Running out of trail options, we tried a new tack – a visit to Bull Shoals White River State Park. Every trip through the Ozarks takes far longer than highway speeds, but eventually we crossed the massive dam that holds back the White River to create Bull Shoals Lake. My thin hope of launching my kayak on the lake drained away with the words “boat launch closed” due to the high lake level. But we found plenty of short trails.

Rich spied a red headed woodpecker – a bird not often found Up North – and I sensed the perfect opportunity to divide and conquer. I hiked a longer, higher trail while he hunted his prey. I got my vistas and Rich found not only his bird, but its nest!

Weak wifi and abysmal cell reception in our cabin provided the incentive to pull away from the world. Away from responsibilities. Away from that To Do list that followed me there. I plowed through several books. I did some drawing for my community ed Beginning Drawing class. We grilled most nights and ate outside when the weather was favorable. And I got my flickering bonfire.

Did the week turn out as expected? Nope. But there was no denying we were on vacation. We had warm weather, slept in each morning, appreciated our leisure and spent quality time together. I returned refreshed, glad to be home, eager to hop on my bike. But grateful for the escape. Just as it should be.

Just Say Yes

Emotions don’t have to be logical.

“I miss our kids. And our grandkids.” It had been weighing on me all day. I just had to say it out loud.

“You just saw them. We were in Milwaukee a few weeks ago, then we went to the Cities. You’ve had lots of time with family.” Rich tried to reason with me.

“That’s not the point. I miss them NOW.”

The isolation of COVID, the forced inactivity of post-surgery recovery and life had gotten me down. I went to bed thinking Rich didn’t get it. He didn’t understand my feelings. He was made of different stuff, didn’t need family like I did.

I tossed and turned, and in the early morning hours Rich snuggled up and said, “I think you should get up and go to Karen’s.”

“No. That would never work.” I already had my day mapped out. Writing assignments to finish. Clothes to wash. Church. A bike ride. Karen and family were probably busy.

“Call her,” he insisted. I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth. Texted with no response. Washed my face, looked in my closet for something to wear. Took a deep breath and called.

“That would be great, Mom! We have no big plans for the day. When can you be here?” Karen’s voice was all I needed.

I’m not very good at being spontaneous. At changing course on a dime. But that morning I was out the door in record time, and rolled into Karen’s driveway by 10am.

Michael ran into my arms as soon as I came in the door. Isabel and Mya took me on tours of their Minecraft houses. Ben lurked somewhere, it was enough that he was close by. They had already made my day. That’s just what I came for.

As promised, the day was loose and unstructured. Having left all my to-do’s at home, I was happy to go with the flow. It was a day for just being. Being together. Being with family.

Dabbling in paint, crayons and markers
A family walk
A mother/daughter bike ride
Playtime
Yummy brownies
Reading bedtime stories

I was home by 10am the following morning. Refreshed, fulfilled, happy. My heart overflowing with the hugs and the time spent together. My to-do list still awaited, no worse off for delaying a day. Rich did get it. I’m so glad he pushed me to go. And that I just said yes.

Life in the Slow Lane

Covid has shut down large chunks of my social life. Confined me to writing at a table in our bunk room instead of the cozy environs of Amity Coffee. Diverted me to Zooming with my delivery-mates instead of bringing library books to shut-ins. Shackled me to the stove every afternoon at 5:00 instead of eating out now and then. Limited our table to two instead of the frequent dinner guests we love to invite to our home.

There have been positive sides too. Loads of time for writing, urging my book forward toward becoming a real manuscript. Seeing family more than ever, the only personal contact we’ve allowed ourselves indoors. Getting out to enjoy our State Parks. Pairing up with friends to run and walk and talk, talk, talk in the great outdoors. Pedaling my bike up and down the shore, waving to other cyclists and runners.

And then came “recovery.” I had minor surgery to repair a hernia the same week Rich had his latest heart procedure, sidelining us in tandem. Our Covid-suppressed household narrowed even further, as life quieted down to allow our bodies to heal. I finished several books, started knitting again and poured myself into my writing. In solitude. Indoors.

Although I bounced back quickly, I was still under strict restrictions: do not lift over 15 pounds, avoid straining my core, no cardio exercise for two weeks. Then came the empowering words, “Walk as often as you feel able.”

It started out as shuffling. I barely made it to Superior Street and back. I couldn’t keep up with Rich for a 1-mile walk, despite his impairment. But each day I was determined to try again. Four days in it actually felt like walking. Each day from there got better, my walks longer.

When I’m running or cycling, I’m aware of my surroundings but more focused on the activity. Pushing my pace, pedaling up hills, getting in a good workout. Walking has shifted me into slow motion. I have more time to appreciate nature as I amble along. I open my eyes and ears to the world around me. It’s as much about the escape as it is about moving my body.

I hear the soothing rush of Amity Creek for the whole distance of 7 Bridges Road, and pause on the bridges to watch it gushing with spring run-off.

Amity Creek above Smiley Falls
Amity Creek at The Deeps

My limitations encourage me to sidetrack and look more closely at the evidence of Spring’s struggle to arrive.

Spring buds

I have more time to appreciate the beauty of the sunrise, even if the sun is hiding.

White sunrise Brighton Beach

I catch a glimpse of nature’s artistry created by the prolific rainfall, and pause to admire.

Brighton Beach reflection

I take the time to play with “burst mode” on my phone in order to catch the waves at their highest.

Brighton Beach waves

I stop and sit on the rocks warmed by the sun, listening to the water gently lapping.

Resting at Brighton Beach

I catch the scenery I see almost daily, but in a new light.

Brighton Beach gazebo
Gazebo with shoreline

I’d be lying if I said I was content with my daily walks. I can’t wait for the day I can resume running and cycling. I’m told to “start slow with short timeframes.” So I’ll continue to supplement that with more walks, more observations. Still living life in the slow lane.

Molly at Brighton Beach