I’ve Got Rhythm

It is what I was born for—

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside the soft world—

to instruct myself

over and over.

Mary Oliver

This photograph of buttercups was taken right outside my front door, where they are the first flowers to appear each spring. The ground is still damp with snow melt, and the grass is brown, yet there they are, a welcome promise of things to come. After the buttercups start to fade, the taller and more spectacular balsam root will raise its yellow sunflowers above their arrow shaped leaves. Then will begin the dazzling variety of blooms: lupine, paintbrush, yarrow, creating a profusion of color that brightens my days after the long dark winter of the north country.

It is always the same. I have lived here long enough now to know the rhythm and to feel it within me. I begin to awaken earlier with the morning light. There’s a gladness that fills me when I walk into the living room and see the bouquet of daffodils on the table. This time of year it is still well below freezing in the morning when I get up, but there is an eagerness to get outside, to walk, to swing my arms, to celebrate the way the world renews itself each year.

I have lived close enough to the natural order of things to integrate these rhythms into every cell of my body. One of many things I have always loved about backpacking is how easy this process becomes. I awaken with the light, quite early so that I can enjoy the sunrise. This gives me plenty of time to savor a cup of tea while I read and still get on the trail early. This gets me into camp usually around mid-afternoon, allowing plenty of time to enjoy the afternoon sun and recover from the long strenuous hike. I used to build a fire in the evening and would sit next to it for warmth and light before crawling into my tent and sleeping bag. Nowadays I no longer build fires, and I miss that part of this rhythm, but it is a necessary sacrifice.

A life of backpacking has taught me many lessons and much about myself. I have been retired now for over ten years and one of the gifts of this stage in life is being able to live by these rhythms that surround me. No longer am I forced to awaken to the unwelcome blare of an alarm clock. I do not need to commute in traffic, work at a job for eight hours a day, come home and do chores so that my weekends will not be burdened by their accumulation.

Instead I awaken with the natural light, build a fire in the wood stove and sit with my journal and a cup of tea as the day begins, much as I do in a campsite on the trail. I go for daily walks when the weather allows, and I pay attention to the changing rhythms I experience in this aging body. That means welcoming the gift of an afternoon nap, going to bed earlier, and making time to let my attention be drawn to the wild world that flashes with the wings of a bluebird and then to sit there for a long time and watch because there is nothing else that seems quite as important.

Yes, I would love to regain the youthful vigor that allowed me to carry a heavy pack over mountain passes day after day on a long trek. But my back will not allow it without risking further injury, so I am settling into this new rhythm that is not so different really, lacking only the heavy pack. The fire still burns to warm the morning. I caress the cup of tea in my hands. I remember and am filled with gratitude for the way the world turns each day, the way a life turns.