Below is the audio-recording for anyone wishing to listen rather than read.
Heading into the weekend, I planned to be so productive yesterday. I am not quite two months into a new job, and this past week was a whirlwind. And yet, I still managed to work on my book for a couple of hours two mornings. I felt ambitious as I finally closed my laptop on work tasks and called it a day on Friday. I would wake up Saturday morning and write a post for this newsletter, then roll into working on the nearly finished first draft of my book.
I slept like a rock Friday night.
And woke up Saturday feeling groggy, with a bit of a headache.
Just off enough that I paused and listened. Listened to that inner voice. The I behind the me, the I am-ness that is awareness, the observer beyond the chattering brain.
I listened and knew that yesterday wasn’t a day for productivity.
I admit, when I heard that voice that told me to slow down and go with the natural flow of this island, I felt a little panic. I felt anxious and defeated.
I wondered if I was simply procrastinating, failing to follow through. After all, I had just made the promise to myself to lean into the fear this year and carve out space for my creative endeavors, to pursue the life I envision.
Am I already letting myself down?
But as I moved through my morning routine, the voice persisted. Insisted.
Listen, it urged.
Trust, it nudged.
I live on an island, just off the coast of the east side of the Olympic Peninsula. Island time is slow time, no matter what time of year it is. The most recent census estimates place our population at under 1,000. The pace here is always slower. But in the winter, it moves at the pace of the big, fat slugs that I find on my porch. No hurry to be anywhere.
The tides shift in the winter, so that even during low tide, the beaches narrow to a sliver and often disappear altogether, which means fewer people take the long beach walks they enjoy during the warmer months.
The winds often roar through, making walking through the woods sketchier at times.
It can rain, or sleet, or sometimes snow. Even in the rain shadow of the Olympics, winter is the wet season. The weather can change dramatically within hours and unexpectedly.
I now live on a bluff with views of the Puget Sound, Whidbey Island, and — when the clouds part or lift enough — the Cascades and Mt. Baker. I can see sailboats, cruisers, cruise ships, container ships, and military vessels cruise slowly down the channel in front of my house.
I watch the eagles, seagulls, ducks of all sorts wheel and flutter and splash. In the early morning hours, I can hear the Stellar sea lions and sometimes see them and seals in the water.
This island begs you to notice. To slow your rhythms. To breath the salty air or the smell of cedars, firs, and pines. It beckons you to go with the flow of nature. Your nature. The island’s nature. Mother Nature.
Yesterday, I listened to that voice.
I moved in island time.
Winter time.
Slow time.
And my day rewarded me with time that stretched out into infinity, with an open heart and mind that sensed the expansiveness of each moment, with a flow that erased the headache and awakened the body and spirit.
After languishing in the warmth of my coffee mug and the delicious aroma and unnamable nostalgia the first sip, the first mug, always delivers (and the alertness and mental clarity that comes with the second and third cup!), I eased into movement.
A walk to East Beach was in order, before the thunderstorms forecasted to arrive in the afternoon (you learn to always be mindful of the forecast, while always being aware of its unpredictability in these parts, especially in winter). The rain and gale-force winds of the overnight hours left their imprints, with downed limbs (nothing larger, thankfully) and the heightened scents the extra moisture brings.
With each lung-full of the nature’s clean-air elixir, I felt my pulse fall in step with the trees, currents, waves, and birds surrounding me. I let go of the guilt and disappointment that I so frequently feel when I don’t live up to my own expectations.
This. This was the right way to spend my day. Even the handful of work-related texts I received didn’t stress me out. I simply addressed them, then let them go.
Once home, I prepared a mug of herbal, loose-leaf tea from a local herbalist, and took my cat and a cozy blanket out to the front porch to watch the sea world go by.
A friend asked if I’d accompany her to collect poplar branches for the buds she hoped to use to create salves to sell at the island’s general store (which is set to re-open this summer after being closed for a couple of years following a fire). We set a time based on the forecasted thunderstorms, with the caveat that we would bail if torrential downpours arrived. We said this half-jokingly.
But the rains moved in as I was sipping my tea out on the porch. The radar showed clear skies on the end of the island where the poplar tree sat. I had no intention of bailing. We touched base and agreed that we’d carry on with our plans.
I pulled on my rain pants and slipped into my waterproof boots, just in case, and walked up the 1/10th mile driveway to wait for my friend by the road. The rain lightened, and I turned my face up to the falling drops, savoring the cool moisture and crispness in the air.
And then it began to fall harder. I moved under a tree, devoid of leaves but still offering some protection, more concerned about getting into my friend’s truck drenched than about actually getting soaked. I reveled in the rain. It’s part of life here, and I am grateful for it. Particularly since we’ve returned to more normal rain patterns this year.
I am not a fan of La Niña winters here.
Just saying.
After harvesting a few poplar shoots, I returned to the coziness of my home feeling a second round of rejuvenation from spending time in the elements.
This day called for homemade soup.
I leisurely chopped potatoes, leeks, onions, and garlic for this delicious and delightfully simple vegan potato leek soup, making a few substitutions as the mood struck. When I have the time to slow craft a meal, I like to sip on wine and play music in the background. I enjoy engaging all my senses in the art of creation. I savor each moment, unhurried in the process.
I danced around the kitchen and sang out loud when the music moved me. I laughed at the tears streaming down my face as I sliced and diced the onion. I paused in the preparations to step outside to feel the cool breeze and watch the kaleidoscope of color and clouds.
Cooking in this way is meditative, hypnotic, and relaxing. And I think the food tastes better, too. The exchange of energy during a slow preparation is a gift. I send the joy and love I feel into the food while sensing the energy it offers me. It isn’t really any different than the energy exchange I feel when I’m walking in the woods or on the beach.
I capped off my day by finishing a personally inspiring docuseries on Netflix before heading to bed to read.
A slow day. Yet, it felt I lived a thousand moments in it. Far from just sitting around (which is nice on occasion, too), I participated in the flow of the island.
When I left on my road journey more than five years ago, “I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow of life” (Henry David Thoreau). I certainly accomplished that. But now, living here on this island, I find that I don’t have to abandon this way of life, even as I’ve returned to a regular sort of job, even as I’ve set my intentions and sights on a creative life in the not-so-distant future.
Living on island time, living in the flow and rhythms of the season and nature, expands time and replenishes my energy. It fills my heart and soul, while emptying my mind of the clutter and chatter.
So, my friends, here’s to allowing yourself the time to find the flow of the season, of nature, of your own beating heart, to taking it slow, and to living deep and sucking all the marrow of life.
Peace and love,
Desserae
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