Sometimes regeneration comes when slowing down, not stopping, and seeing things through different eyes.  The following appeared as:  THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD, Rutland Herald & Times Argus, ACTIVE VERMONT, August 10, 2014

Surely I’m not alone. My heart resides in the mountains of Vermont, but a bit of my spirit needs the ocean. This is my fourth year spending some of my summer on the coast of Maine. .

At the time it seemed a stroke of luck, but now I believe it was meant to be. One winter I randomly opened a Down East magazine and my eye fell on a simple one-liner of a cottage rental on one of many fingers of land that jut out into the ocean. I characterize the place by saying that if I fell off the deck, I’d spill down the rocky bank and get wet. (OK, there is no crashing surf but the water is legitimately salty and rises and falls with the 6-hour tidal changes.)

What has become “my” cottage is perfect. Quiet, simple, off the beaten path, it is the place I go to recharge and play.

 

Last week I saw Maine through the eyes of a soon-to-be 10 year old new to it all. For one week we were unplugged: no computer, tv, radio, iPod or even heart rate monitor, only an iPhone to assure her parents that we were always accessible.

It all began when we packed my little Subaru with a month’s worth of work, play and living for me, a week’s worth for her, and two Jack Russells who needed as much gear and grub as we did. With kayak and bike on the roof, and Anne of Green Gables (unabridged) in the cd player, we embarked on an adventure that turned out to be as meaningful and fresh with discovery for me as it was for her.

When I unlocked the door, I was touched to see in her face the wonder and awe that I feel each time I cross the threshold. In an instant, I knew that we would share equally. If I could slow down, speed up or pause at just the right times, I would see anew. There’s only one first: one first time away from home, one first time to see a blazing sunset reflected on the water, taste the salt on one’s face after a day at the beach, measure the hours by the tides or glimpse a seal. To revisit that first time with a child is a treasured gift.

“Recovery is a Valid and Necessary Part of Fitness.”

How many times have I said this, sternly urging clients to balance their active training days with appropriate recovery, time for the body to regenerate and, in doing so, retain strength and performance gains instead of breaking down and diminishing. Do I listen to my own coaching?

Not once in 6 days did I unpack my gear bag, inflate tires, lace running shoes, lift a dumbbell or even think TRX or Bosu. I also gave my disciplined psyche a rest. We stayed up late, slept in, forgot to eat, then messed about in the kitchen scrabbling together whacky meals after dark. We let the sun’s position in the sky and our curiosity provide loose structure to our days. Can this only be done in the company of a child? Do we need permission?

This is not to say we were inactive. We walked, swam, scuttled over rocks, squatted, reached, pushed, pulled, hopped, skipped and jumped our way through the hours. But, the key is that we paused when we wanted.

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And there were questions. Matthew Cuthbert’s halting “Well … Now … I don’t know” became a theme as well as a challenge to search for each answer.

At the conclusion of Anne of Green Gables, we segued to Cynthia Lord’s wonderful story “Touch Blue” (Scholastic, Inc. 2012). To our delight, Tess, a spunky 11-year-old, compares her family’s experience welcoming a foster child to their simple island home in Maine with that of Marilla, Matthew and Anne (“spelled with an e”) when the latter arrived at the little farm house on Prince Edward Island. Sweet serendipity.

Words we read became part of the fabric of each outing. One calm day we paddled (another first) from the mainland out to an island accessible only by boat. Residents parked their cars on the shore, walked to their dories docked nearby, loaded their groceries, supplies and usually a dog, and puttered off to the island to reverse the process. When her fatigue became obvious, I resisted the urge to paddle on and we simply floated in the gently moving water. Twenty minutes later we were good to go, but better. In that space of time we had shared dreams and closed our eyes to memorize the rhythms of the waves. I taught her how to paddle using more than arms and shoulders, how to employ the core by turning the upper body with each stroke and pushing as well as pulling the shaft. She got it. While abdominal muscles were at work on each paddle stroke, the ceaseless rock and glide of the boat became a part of our emotional core. (Mark Verstegen, who did ground-breaking work on functional training and the core, connects core strength with core values.)

Later we compared our sea journey with the Maine Atlas and Robert McCloskey’s classic “Time of Wonder” locating islands named Sheep, Pumpkin, Three Sisters and Birch. Words were more than read.

Power, Strength, Force, Balance

Though these words apply to physical conditioning, we found them on the beach too. To a child familiar with mountain trails, the ocean is compelling. Should it be feared or is respect enough? Does it represent work or play? I have a series of photos that mark the transition from first tentative steps to open-mouthed surprise when being tumbled. Cold, noisy, relentless, the rollers curl into breakers as the undertow buries feet in the sand and upsets the best balance.

We had driven to a beach some distance away in order to witness the ocean in all its glory. With only a few visitors, ocean’s edge became hers to enjoy with abandon. Unselfconsciously she jumped and fell, dunked and ran, sang and skipped and teased the waves as they did her.

“Touch blue and your wish will come true,” Lord writes. Despite daily trips to calmer beaches searching for shells and sea glass, we found only one smooth chunk of blue. Periwinkles we have by the dozens, scooped up by the handful and carefully washed and dried back at the cottage. We collected bright bits of shells, rocks that, of course, were more colorful wet than later dried but oh well, small pieces of driftwood and our sparse collection of glass. Just before packing for home, she filled several jars with scrupulously selected samples of each and tied a ribbon around the top to take home as gifts.

There was oh so much more. Perhaps what will most remain in memory for this sensitive child is a week’s worth of daily life on the coast and her sense of familiarity with the cottage and the dirt road loop we walked many times. Looking from her bedroom window she could watch the sunrise over water, hear the creaking of the floating dock, the coo of the doves and the shrill call of the seagulls. From the deck we watched cormorants stretch their wings to dry and the ducks dive for breakfast as we ate our own.

On the other side of the peninsula we watched sunsets so brilliant that, had an artist painted them, we would have scoffed at his exaggeration. The fragile new moon hung above the tops of the pine trees standing on a lump of land that was, at low tide, a short walk from the mainland, and at high tide, an island. 

On the night we left to drive towards home, that same moon was bolder and turned a deep orange, leading us towards Vermont. Returning hours later, I unlocked the door to the empty cottage and stepped in to begin the next chapter of my Maine. There, on the table with a love note, was the piece of blue sea glass. I touched it and feel sure that our wishes will come true.