I can see for miles and miles

We recently took a drive and went exploring in Somerset where we enjoyed some absolutely gorgeous views.

We stopped off in Glastonbury to see the sights and ended up spending the entire day there.  What a neat town it turned out to be!  Aside from being the rumored burial site of King Arthur, my knowledge of Glastonbury was nil.  As it turns out, it's a hippie town.  It was like some strange English version of Moab, Utah and Eugene, Oregon rolled into one.

Oddly, we felt right at home-- except when we walked into the nudist healing well: darkness, candles, water, flesh... but that's another story altogether.  Otherwise, the alternative shops and music and veggie restaurants held such a familiar quality.  I will readily admit that we nearly cried at the offerings in their large healthfood store-- by far the best I've seen yet in Great Britain.

The kids were more interested in climbing up the hill to see Glastonbury Tor than seeing the abbey ruins.  So after browsing around the town, we set out to find our way to the hill.  And then we climbed up, up, up to the very top.

It's considerably flat where we live in England.  Flat and green.  We see a lot of trees, and only once in awhile when we're out taking a drive in the country do we get a glimpse of a view.  Like when we lived in Texas and Indiana, the lack of a view is something we've had to resign ourselves to, but of course we still have that longing to see off into the distance.  There's something magical that happens when you can look out over the land and take it all in.  You really get a sense of where you are in the world.  Time and space all come together and it just lifts you and transforms you in that moment.

So imagine my delight climbing this hill.  Halfway up, the view was splendid.  All the way up?  At the very tip top of the hill, high enough for the wind to catch us in its grasp, it was ridiculously amazing.  We could see everything.  Far, far off in every direction.




I just stood there and turned in circles and took it all in, swallowing every bit of the landscape.  I had the sudden urge to sing at the top of my lungs:

I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles... oh yeah!

Now that I've managed to reference a song from The Who, courtesy of the soundtrack of my childhood, I'll let you in on a little secret.  I'm turning 40 this week.  If I were to stand on the hill of my life, presumably, I would be somewhere in the middle.  Far off in the distance behind me, I can see glimpses of my former self eating mud pies and skipping rope and kissing boys.  And if I look ahead, of course I can't see a thing.  What's to come is still in the shadows.  It's a mere haze of ideas of what life might hold, but I can't get a real sense of it.  We never can.

I think that's why we're so pulled in by these places that give us such a vantage point over the landscape.  It's the only time we can really see what's off in the distance... where we've been, where we are now, and where we're going.  My life has been filled with so much change and upheaval, I can't say where I'll be three years from now, much less forty.  I'm pretty sure it won't be naked in Glastonbury in a crypt full of candles and water, but honestly... how would I know?

So I appreciate the view where I can get it.  I may not be able to see off into the distance of my life and get a sense of what's to come, but if I'm still skipping rope and kissing boys... perhaps I haven't yet crested the summit.  Perhaps I'm still on my way up.

 I'm so thankful to have these lovelies along for the ride.

~~~~~~

So where do you go for a view?  Where do time and space collide for you?

Mental Health Day

This has been a really strange week at my house. Both Einstein and I have been feeling really off-kilter, not as a unit, but just thwarted by some recent developments and the emotional energy that surrounds them. Yesterday those emotions came to a head, and we simply couldn't function. So we packed up our kids and our life jackets and went to the lake.

Whenever we venture out like this it feels great. We took many mental health days after my dad died two years ago. We drove down to Galveston Island State Park and miraculously had the entire place to ourselves. We walked along the beach in complete solitude, let the girls play in the sand and the sea, and let the the salt air and the grand forces of nature wash over us, and hold us rooted to the earth.

We went on day hikes along rivers, discovered waterfalls and massive oak trees that had stood witness to more hopes and sorrows than Einstein and I will ever know. We took long drives out in the country, camped, walked, listened to the wind rush through the trees, and the sound of water bubbling over rocks. And we made our best investment yet: a canoe.

We lived in Austin, Texas at the time and dragged our canoe out on the Colorado River that winds its way through the area, where we explored every little crevice of water around Town Lake. We stumbled upon deer and large snapping turtles, nests teeming with duck eggs, swan couples swimming along with their fuzzy-headed cygnets, and a multitude of dragonflies, blue and sparkling as they darted all around us. We found surprise rain showers and warm, clear springs to wade around in. And more than once we rowed out under Congress Street bridge to behold hundreds of thousands of bats take flight at dusk over our heads.

Being in the presence of nature is cathartic. No matter what tragedy befalls us, nature goes on, unhalted. The open air makes room for the energy that swells inside us, causing our hearts to break and our heads to spin-- nature gives us all the room we need for that stuff to dissipate. It helps us slow our heart rates, think more clearly and gives us room to breathe.

Yesterday we ended up at a nearby lake. We made friends with local fisherman, and the kids were a captive audience to three families of geese and their combined 18 goslings. We watched birds and noticed the myriad shades of green in the trees across the lake. We rowed and sat. Contemplated and breathed deeply. And held each other.

We're always teaching our kids something. Hopefully mental health falls somewhere at the top of the list. I hope when they're older they will remember these days on the lake and be able to release their own inevitable sorrows into the wind, and like the geese, find their way home again.