lisa

There is the question of where to live next. I am putting my house up for sale in the spring. That’s the extent of my plan so far. As to where I will go after that, I have it narrowed down to a place where people are happy and a place that has a healthy appreciation for music. It’s an unspoken given that it must have an abundance of natural areas and I believe it will be in northern Michigan.

I do, of course, need to work, and unless the right job in the right place happens to come along, I may end up just moving myself, so that instead of traveling north to work each day, perhaps I’ll travel south, or east, with the job at the center of my circle. I have wanted to live in a town along Lake Michigan’s shore for many years, and experience the Big Lake for all four season, and keeping my current job would allow me that experience if I were to move myself temporarily to a place along the shore. It’s not as far north as my heart is calling, but it would certainly give me a bit of time getting to know the Lake on a daily basis, until I can move without the hindrance of my current job’s location, or until I know where I truly want to go.

These thoughts fill my mind as I find myself at the shore again this bitterly cold November day. I hike first up a steep path through the woods that takes me out to a great view of the lake from a high dune. The erosion is incredible – there is virtually no shoreline here anymore, in just one season, and the cliff edge that’s been created is a good 30 feet drop off, replacing what used to be a gradual decline to the water’s edge across a wide expanse of sandy beach. One season, and so much has changed.

The water is dark with sand and silt, as the huge swells heave and break again and again, bringing debris from possibly hundreds of miles away. It is a fitting display for my mood and churning thoughts, which seem to be dredging up desires ranging far and wide.

I head back inland and down to a second path that leads me on a winding forest trail, which will again take me to a high vantage point above the crashing water. The path is longer, and the forest seems to cloak itself around me in a quiet unusual for such a windy day, but the trees have mostly lost their leaves and there is only the creaking of the treetops high above and whoosh of the wind as I crunch along the path contemplating my past and my future.

Lately I’ve had people mention Hawaii to me, as a place I would “love”. This seems unlikely, other than the amazing hiking – but the lack of snow and fresh water I think would not be a good fit. Arizona has also been coming up a lot, specifically with people suggesting that I would love it there. I’ve been so set on Michigan that these wildly different suggestions are jarring me, which is probably good. I even happen to stumble on a potential job advertised in Flagstaff. A small little flame ignites, turning in my mind – could this be a sign? It doesn’t feel like it. In my gut, I don’t think Arizona is the right place, right now, but, what if it is? Could this be The Moment that I take an unknown path, a path that changes my life forever? Could this determination to remain in Michigan be The Moment that I miss the turn that could catapult my life into the stuff my dreams are made of?

There is no way to know, other than to trust that every decision we make is the right one. I recently heard a very wise woman say something along the lines of, we cannot continue to beat ourselves up for not knowing what we know now, because how in the world would we know now what we do, if we had not gone through what we did before we knew it?

I know that right now, I cannot rethink my past choices – I can learn from them, from the decisions I’ve made, the choices I chose, or chose to pass by. Who knows how many moments we miss as we barrel along through life, how many opportunities that “could have been”. It doesn’t really matter, because ultimately we will get where we are going, and if Arizona holds great promise for me, it will hold that fortune for me when I’m ready to go there. I have complete trust that I will find my way to the Right Place, and right now, that place is walking a sandy forest path along the shores of Lake Michigan on a bitingly cold November day, sorting out my desires, and appreciating the beauty that surrounds me.

After spending days in the remote and not-busy-this-time-of-year Keweenaw Peninsula, driving back down to the main part of the Upper Peninsula feels like returning to the mainland. It’s funny, because usually arriving in the UP from the lower peninsula feels like finally stepping away from the mayhem and busy-ness of the more metropolitan areas, yet this time, heading south into the UP proper and especially into Marquette feels like approaching Detroit or Grand Rapids – cars, constructions, stop lights, franchise after franchise after franchise. Everything is relational.

My day job is as a software support person for 20-plus school districts in the southwest region of Michigan. I love my job, though I’ve come to realize it is a short-view type of love, more like a crush, in that it doesn’t really fill my bucket. I truly believe and am thankful that I’m helping people; it’s just not in any way that feels especially significant. The job is a new puzzle every day, which I love, and I am continually learning and expanding my skills and abilities. One of the ways I get to keep learning is through conferences, and since I love to travel, this is an especially appreciated bonus to my work life. The regional fall conference this year is on Mackinaw Island, which is typically bursting it’s borders with throngs of tourists on bicycles, and horses and buggies transporting people and baggage throughout the no-motorized-vehicles-permitted streets of the historic island. I have taken the ferry a number of times during the warm summer months, to share the beauty with my exchange daughters and my daughter, but coming now in October (the second time I’ve been able to come during “off-season”) is substantially more enjoyable for me. Though I do love to people watch, in general crowds do not bring me joy. I’m looking forward to a quieter, less-populated visit to the island.

I feel the same sadness I often do heading back toward the Mackinaw Bridge, leaving the rugged beauty of the Upper for another trip, so on the way toward the island, we stretch our “upper trip” one night longer by spending a windy, snowy night in Manistique. It’s nice to be able to “transition” back to reality with some days on the island before heading all the way south to home and the daily routine, and it’s especially nice to have just one more night in the UP before heading to the island.

The next morning, it is snowing and cold, and though the sadness in leaving the upper is still with me, the excitement of the next leg of the trip is taking my mind off of the “leaving” and instead focusing on these last miles before “arriving” at our next destination.

What is it about travel that makes me simultaneously long for something and also feel I’ve found it? It is like living in the moment while craving something long lost…perhaps its the fleeting nature of a vacation, knowing that it is only a temporary reprieve. Perhaps it is, for me, that I do not love where I currently live, nor do I find true satisfaction from my work, so that travel affords me an opportunity to breathe in enjoyment for longer stretches than when I am “home”, where, please understand, I do find moments of deep pleasure – my hikes and walks and dogs and enchanted back yard and books and music all allow me to breathe in joyful breaths of gratitude and appreciation. They are shorter moments, yet I find them frequently. I wonder if living in a place I loved would ultimately bring me the feeling of having found home, or if it too would become a daily grind, and I would need to travel to “get away”. I think it’s all in how we live – there is something to be said for living where you love, but we can also find things to love no matter where we live. I personally want to do both, and until then, I am so thankful for the moments and places that keep reminding me of my heart’s desire.

I drive the two hours north to spend the night at my mother’s cute little apartment on a Tuesday, so that we can leave together early the next morning for our fall color tour.  She has an itinerary in mind, and as we drive 4-plus hours north, she expresses her desire to fit in a trip to Lake of the Clouds somehow, though she has not been able to work it into our plans.  We eat lunch at the park on the St. Ignace side of the Mackinaw Bridge, and after looking at the map, I think we could make it to Ontonagon by 6pm, allowing us to see Lake of the Clouds and then make our way up the Keweenaw Peninsula to our other planned destinations.  At 78 years old, my mother has a remarkable store of energy and is driven by her desires. She’s always been this way. So we continue on, another 5 hours, finding sufficient lodging (which is the nicest way to put it) on very short notice in Ontonagon, after traveling a good 600 miles this first day, which lets us start at our farthest point and slowly make our way back over the next days.  We walk out to Lake Superior just past sunset for a look, and then to the bustling local diner for a delicious meal. 

The next day as the sun rises over the sleepy little town, we head over to Lake of the Clouds.  The 25-mile drive into the Porcupine Mountains along the Lake Superior shore crosses numerous rivers and creeks – Dreiss Creek, Weigel Creek, Potato River, Cranberry River, Little Cranberry, Townline – all spilling into the Great Lake to our right. 

I’ve brought my film camera again and at the overlook to Lake of the Clouds, I haul myself onto the rock bluff while my mom walks along the boardwalk. After some time, I see my mom coming toward me, the rocky terrain not slowing her in the least, and we explore the views and some paths together.

Driving back toward the western edge of the Keweenaw Peninsula, she is not only patient with me as I stop to check out several of the creeks and rivers – Big Iron River, Mineral River, Patent Creek, Miles Creek, Pine Creek, Duck Creek – but understands that I must seize the moment and take the time to enjoy and explore while I can.  At one such stop, she gets out with me, and as we are looking out over the bridge toward the rivermouth, a great Bald Eagle flies in and lands on the top of the tallest tree.  The eagle periodically spreads her wings, to stretch perhaps or gain better balance, taking no notice of us as her gaze pierces the river and surrounding area.

We watch for a time, standing on the bridge on the quiet road, then continue on, eventually driving north through the teeming metropolis of Houghton, up the Keweenaw toward Eagle River.  Along the route, she sees a sign for Cliff Cemetery and shouts “Stop!”, though there is no discernible path, parking lot, or roadway. We pull well off the side of the highway and head down the embankment into the woods until we find ourselves in a clearing of headstones and Celtic crosses overgrown with ivy. We quietly explore the old grave sites sinking into the soft earth in the hushed forest.

My mom has booked us a room at Fitzgerald’s in Eagle River, and after a delicious dinner with Lake Superior crashing just below the dining room windows, we walk in the moonlight around the town, and then sleep with the window cracked to the sound of the great waves breaking just feet away. 

The next day takes us to Copper Harbor, across Brockway Mountain Drive, the highest paved roadway between the Rockies and the Allegheny mountains, and as the rain beats down, she tells me of the raptor migration that occurs each spring, with thousands of the birds alighting here before crossing Lake Superior.  She is a wealth of information, again driven purely by her interests and desires to experience certain things (shouldn’t we all be?), and we talk of a tentative trip in the spring to witness their flight.

My daughter and son-in-law honeymooned in Copper Harbor just last June, and have recommended a hike they loved, but neither my mom nor I were listening very well and have just a loose idea at best of where the trail may be.  The rain continues as we drive out past Lake Fanny Hooe, and make our way slowly along the dirt tracks filling with water.  She is less concerned than I as we forge through huge puddles covering the road, my thoughts on the lack of cell service, the low frame, the unknown potholes or loosened earth invisible in the flooding. 

We eventually find a trail and though she has informed me that she has to be careful to not fall on her brittle bones, I watch with envy as she scampers along more surefooted than I, reminding me of a chipmunk.  We decide the trail, although beguiling, is not the one that the kids recommended, so we take our rain-soaked bodies back to a cozy hotel room looking out over the harbor, snuggled in for an afternoon of books and baths, our socks drying beneath the heater.

The snow begins on our last day in Copper Harbor, and though I’d been searching for a piece of copper jewelry to commemorate the trip and location, nothing has really spoken to me, until I see a pair of warm wool mittens, one hand decorated with a cloth the shape of the upper peninsula of Michigan, and the other with the lower peninsula. The mittens come with two little gems I can sew to indicate “where I live and where I love”. My mind has been on “where I live” the whole time in these places I love, and I find I’ve been silently hoping for a sign, something to tell me where My Next Move will take me. I’ll be selling my house in the spring, but that’s the extent of my plan at this stage. I talk for a long time with a young woman working at one of the many souvenir shops in Copper Harbor who has recently relocated to the tip of the peninsula from Metro Detroit. She says finding work is hard, and fitting in is hard, but then she goes into great and exuberant details about the rocks she is learning to hunt and recognize, and ultimately sell, and the group of people she is now connected with because of this new interest. She seems quite happy, as does Grandpa of Grandpa’s Barn, who greets us with “I am gainfully employed and get to live in this beautiful area” as his way of saying hello.  (No need to ask him “How are you really?”!) The hostess at one of the restaurants also has an air of genuine joy, which she shares with us in many small ways as we chat after dinner, before heading back out into the sleet. It’s clear to me that I want to live in a place where people are happy. One step closer to figuring out a plan for myself.

I have a work conference on Mackinaw Island starting Sunday, so we make our way down the eastern edge through Bete Gris, Gay, following the shore of the majestic Lake Superior until we have to turn inland toward Lake Linden, to cross the only bridge over the waterway that splits the peninsula. Somewhere near L’Anse, we find another nice hike back into a river where I shoot the last of my 35mm film, and then drive the 300 miles to St. Ignace to catch the ferry to the island.

Loading ourselves, water bottles, bug spray, bicycles, and our cameras on the ferry for the short trip to Grand Island, Lea and I aren’t sure what to expect.  The massive island has been in our sights the whole trip, resting just a half mile across the water from our campground, and looking in all its grandness like much more than an island.  It is somehow part of the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, somehow part of the Hiawatha National Forest, and somehow also inhabited by people who live in private residences.  All we know for sure is to take the mosquitoes seriously.  They can be bad up here in the UP anyway, but Lea is very allergic to the bites, and gets impressive welts that last for days.

We’ve both taken our film cameras with us for this trip, and my older smartphone has a deteriorating battery life, so we are saving its use purely to keep track of time.  The last ferry will leave the island at 6pm, and we do not want to be stranded for a night alone on the island without adequate protection, which is precisely what would happen. 

After exiting the ferry and slathering ourselves again with the bug spray, we refer to the rather cryptic map of the island’s dirt roads, and pedal toward what we think will be beaches.  The drone of the mosquitoes around our heads is so loud that we take off at a good pace, mostly out running them, but the terrain is quite rocky (even on the gravel roadway), and very hilly, so we are often creeping along just barely ahead of the bugs.

We discover we have taken a wrong turn, but also discover a very old cemetery, and then a great trail through the forest that eventually leads us to the water.  We have our small picnic on the beach, where the soft breeze keeps the mosquitoes away. After lunch and some quiet shore time, we climb higher into the interior and after a couple hours make our way to the high cliffs overlooking Lake Superior crashing into the rocks below.  We follow this trail back down the western edge of the island, stopping to take pictures here and there.  Using film is a wonderful experience in itself.  The smartphone/digital camera has filled our worlds with amazing images, but with only 36 exposures to a roll, I find that I am much more selective and mindful of what I choose to freeze in time.  There is no immediate satisfaction of seeing the shot either – we will wait weeks for these to get developed.  I find that I remember each shot I took, wondering what it will look like when I get it back, whereas with my smartphone, I often forget I’ve even taken some photos until I’m scrolling through to find something else.

I love that Lea is into film as well, having made room in her suitcase to bring her 35mm from Switzerland for this trip.  By the end of the day, after discovering a shipwreck that’s washed up on shore, after bicycling and swimming and swatting at skeeters, we make it back to the ferry in plenty of time, and rather than staring at our phones like most of the others on the boat, we rest against the seat and take in the bay, the waves, and the water, recalling the day in our mind’s eye, which feels like something I haven’t done in a long, long time. 

Lea and I spend our days lounging in the tent and hammock, walking the beach, kayaking the supremely calm Lake Superior, and climbing dunes. We are both introverts to an extent, and her companionship is often in silence, but also sometimes filled with belly laughs so strong tears stream down our cheeks and we hold our sides until it passes. She is so much fun, and so like Younger Me in many ways.

Hosting exchange students has been an incredible experience, far more expansive and long-term than I had ever imagined way back from the decision to host the “first”, Marisa, who came to us in 2013. We’ve hosted four students during my daughter’s high school career, and each of them are very special to me, my borrowed daughters as I refer to them. Three of them call me Mom or American Mom or Mom-in-America, and three of them have come back to visit more than once, bringing their “real” moms and families along too. Two years ago I went to Europe and visited each of my overseas daughters in their home towns, for short but incredibly lovely visits. Hosting is a wonderful experience to open minds about how we may judge others or unconsciously regard ourselves, not only for the host family, but for the exchange student, and the greater community in which the exchange student circulates. It is a great opportunity for discovery in how we perceive ourselves in regards to others and how we may be perceived.

One particularly rainy afternoon, Lea and I wend our way along H58, a curvy, slow, just recently paved path that connects Munising to Grand Marais through forests, across rivers, along dunes and Lake Superior, and past numerous inland lakes. Just as we arrive at the road into Miners Castle, the rain becomes a torrent and a snake of headlights heading away from the shore slowly passes us as we creep forward in what is quickly a small river rushing along our side of the roadway. I consider stopping or turning, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. We get to the parking lot of the Visitors Center and even with the wipers on high, we barely make out a small handful of cars. We sit to wait it out, as the trees above us sway dramatically, making my heart race a bit and wonder if perhaps there is a safer location (one where a limb won’t crash through the windshield). Eventually the winds subside enough for me to wriggle into my raincoat and trot to the overlook. I want a view of Lake Superior in a rainstorm, and despite the fog, I’m not disappointed.

The rain subsides, as we continue on, stopping periodically to skip stones, or hike a trail, or climb dunes for majestic views. It’s nearly 8pm when we arrive in Grand Marais, and though we are both hungry, the local brewery is packed – over an hour wait – and feels too overwhelming to us after our solitary just-the-two-of-us day, so we make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on sourdough, and walk down to the little bay for a sunset and another belly laugh, before heading back in the quiet darkness to our camp.

I get to share Seney with Lea.  The last time I was here, my heart was splitting into pieces over the looming break up with my guy.  It’s been some weeks since then, and though he and I fell back into each other’s arms more times than we should have, with the best of intentions, it doesn’t last.  We, or at least I, had hoped to come out of the love relationship with a friendship, caring about each other, but at the end we were just kind of limping along, loving each other, but not really supporting or lifting each other. Ultimately it ends in anger as anyone could have predicted.  So I finally let him go.

Letting go of relationships is not something I’ve ever had trouble with. I have let so many people go for so many reasons, never easily, but always with certainty. Sometimes I had just outgrown them, sometimes they had begun to choose a path that wasn’t in alignment with my beliefs, and sometimes I let people go out of fear (I have historically had abandonment issues so I sent people away before they could leave me). I’m at an emotional point in my life and a geographically situated place physically where I have very few people who I consider true friends. In fact, I’m down to two truly long-term good old steadfast friends, both of whom live hundreds of miles from me, and one close friend in my little town.

I believe I need to move (physically) to a region where I have more in common with folks but my heart desires more remote, less populated areas so there’s that. I’m focusing on what I desire, without really focusing on a particular place.

My current small town I’ve lived in for 12 years just hasn’t panned out as a true home for me. I’ve volunteered, helped start a community garden, donated web services to the local theater, and supported all the raffles and student events, but seem to have made only one connection that has lasted. I have finally come to realize basically all the good people of my town are not excluding me; they just have each other already. They don’t need a new friend. Their families have been here for generations and they have scores of cousins and extended family and in laws. They just don’t have room for another. That’s just my opinion. Perhaps another small town would be different.

I’ve long thought that I will move away once I’ve finally fallen in love with my house, this town. And that is ultimately what’s happening. I do truly love my house; the tall ceilings, the enchanted back yard. The house was such a savior for us at a very difficult time, such a risk when I cahsed in my 401k to buy it – wiping out my savings but securing us a home. The town’s charms I’m finding I hold dear now that I realize this might be my last 4th of July parade, my last Comedy Improv night, my last holiday season. I am truly enjoying my front porch, the sun coming in the windows, the sounds of the furnace kicking on when the nights grow colder, the cozy house we’ve made our home for almost a decade. But it is time to start releasing it, and the first step is for me to release it in my mind. To let it go, as something no longer in alignment with my needs or desires. Not easy, but I know with certainty that it is time.

My life is full in so many ways. I have traveled paths that have led me to a peace and acceptance I have not thought possible for many years. My people are scattered across the globe, my borrowed daughters, my small handful of close friends, and of course people with whom I am always happy to see when we do connect. And for now, I have Lea right here with me, sharing Seney. I know that this feeling, this sharing, with someone I love, in a place I love, is what fills my heart. It feels like the reason we are meant to be here.

After a morning walk, I heat the quiche I pre-baked at home over a grate above the fire pit, making just enough noise to rouse the sleeping kids, without having to tell them to get up. My “quiche” is really an egg pie, loaded with protein, carbs, and fat, because I wanted something hearty to fuel us for our day kayaking the Pictured Rocks shoreline!

As many times as I’ve been up here, I have never seen the Rocks from the water, and I am practically giddy as we gather our gear for the trip. The sun has come out, and the lake is still remarkably calm, which I know can change in a minute. I don’t have a lot of experience kayaking lakes, and none of us have kayaked the Great Lakes. On my Au Sable canoe trip in July, I finally learned why I’d never tipped a canoe before. I have often heard people tell a story of ending up in the water on canoe trips, and I think, “Were you trying?”, because it’s really not easy to flip a canoe, unless you stand up or lean way over the edge. I listened from the bow on that Au Sable trip as my good friend’s father told of some wild rivers he’d canoed in his life, as he steered us down the quiet Au Sable. My rivers of choice tend to be calmer, and the lakes I’ve canoed might have been wavy, but never white water. It’s funny how it took so many years for me to put that together. I think of this as we board the re-purposed tour boat that brings us the five miles out to sea, from which we’ll launch our kayaks into the open water.

Lake Superior is unpredictable. It’s not a river, it’s not a wavy lake, and I’m not in my trusty canoe, my preferred vessel of choice. I like to sit up on the water, whereas in a kayak, I always feel too low to the ground. Rather the difference between driving an SUV versus a small sedan. But for this trip, of course the kayaks are the optimal choice, and we are in tandem, my daughter in the bow of her hubby’s kayak; Lea is the navigator, while I steer ours. I had checked the weather repeatedly over the past few days and hours, as the trip loomed closer, sending a silent thanks to Mother Nature each time I saw the winds were low and the temperatures high. Not only is the lake potentially rough, it is cold, remarkably cold, potentially life-threateningly cold if one were in it long enough.

We couldn’t have been luckier. We see incredible sights, kayak right up to the cliffs, into coves where the walls tip inward above us, through caves, and over shipwrecks. The winds remain at 5-6mph for most of the trip, but pick up steadily over the hours. The tandem kayaks are long, and the natural shape of the waves pulls the nose of the boat out toward the open water, away from the shore, making it a constant battle to steer through wide-open stretches, even in the small-ish waves. We are a little worn out, and a little grumpy with each other (the people in the front thinking we in the stern don’t know how to steer, and we in the rear thinking the people in the bow could be helping more). I would bet many hundreds of dollars that this same conversation has been had many hundreds of times along these waters.

It’s an incredible experience. Only at the very end of the trip do the winds really pick up, making it a true challenge to get the kayaks back aboard the powered boat. My heart races and muscles burn as the large boat we are trying to board sways and swings away from us in the waves. I paddle with all my strength to point us onto the ramp as we also dip and sway in the swells. We make it, and the waves grow increasingly larger as we motor back the three-ish miles to the dock. By the time we arrive, the waves are crashing, and docking the multi-passenger boat takes 3 attempts. It is a very tiny taste of what can happen on these waters, this majestic lake in which hundreds of ships have sunk. We had this one day together to kayak, what with the kids’ schedule, and I am so thankful for the weather and the ability to do this with them. It is sure to be one of those Life Memories for all of us.

After my wonderful work trip to New England, I am back in Michigan, at the airport, awaiting the arrival of one of our former exchange students. Lea is flying in from Switzerland for a three-week visit. Prior to hearing of Lea’s surprise visit, I had planned (as of last spring) a week-long get away in Christmas, Michigan along the Lake Superior shore for this month, and not only does Lea genuinely want to go, but my biological daughter and her hubby will also be joining me for at least part of the trip. Apparently my resolve to camp with people made earlier this summer is proving to hold true, with very little effort on my part. And, it’s suddenly okay that my tumultuous relationship with my guy continues to result in him opting to not participate in the things I love to do. It’s not okay that he opts out; it’s okay that he’s not going this time, because some of my most favorite people are.

I also have a new tent. This is a big deal. I’m the type of person (if there is such a type) who, for example, may need a pair of hiking shoes, and will narrow down the options over a period of days, try on a select number of pairs perhaps three or four times – meaning three or four different trips – before deciding to buy. I nearly always have buyer’s remorse, which I think comes from having had extremely tight finances for much of my life (things are certainly better now, but old habits, you know). The tent, unlike the shoes, did not allow me to try it on several times. I just plain bought it. Look at me go.

Once we figure out how to set it up (the instructions reminding me of a bad sitcom skit), we discover the tent has a lot of room, almost allowing me to stand up straight, which, if you are a tall person and/or tent camp often, know what a luxury being able to straighten up can be. Another cool thing is it has what I call the Mud Room – an entryway with no floor (just the earth) but which is covered and allows things to stay dry, like dirty shoes that can be slipped off prior to entering the Sleeping Area. I also really like the shape of my new tent, reminding me of a greenhouse from my former gardening days.

My daughter and son-in-law have their own tent, so Lea and I get the Hoop House to ourselves, which makes sense since we will be staying longer. Our first night, after setting up camp, we hike to some waterfalls, and then cook a big dinner together over the fire. We walk down to the shore, skipping stones across the water, and just laughing and hanging out. This again is a cool new experience for me, all this camaraderie and joyfulness. We watch the sun set (sort of – the angle of the bay is such that the sun sets just beyond our view of the lake), but the colors in the sky and the company of these wonderful people make for a great close to the day.

The next morning I am up before the kids, and take my coffee on a walk to the shore. Grand Island is right in front of me, right out there across the bay, squatting grandly in the unusually calm Lake Superior waters. There are no boats yet, and the sky is overcast. I let my mind float, recalling the evening before with the kids, thinking of the day ahead, and enjoying the breeze coming across the water. There aren’t, in my experience, many moments where the air coming off Lake Superior can be described as a “breeze”, or the water “calm”. I would like to spend more time here, I think, and just as the thought comes, so does the obvious realization that I am spending time here, right in this moment, wishing for something in the future. I take a breath and laugh at myself. A hole opens in the clouds, and a brilliant expanse of morning sun pours a singular shaft of light down onto one small area of the great lake. A boat crosses the bay directly through the sparkling water, heading somewhere, the passengers anticipating their arrival on Grand Island I suspect, yet the vision of the sky, the water, the boat, I hold in my memory as the moment of significance.

For days after the break up, I feel mildly in shock. We don’t text for the first week. People I haven’t seen for years are suddenly in proximity to me at just the right time in my life. Old friends visiting from Alaska invite me and my daughter up to Grayling to float the Au Sable. I have a grand ol’ time trudging up the shallow Au Sable, pulling their two young sons by a rope tied to inner tubes, then watching them float downriver to the Air B&B’s dock, for a little while forgetting all about my heartache. When the distraction is over, I tie my innertube to a tree in the middle of the river and float, suspended, with my limbs dangling, eyes closed, imagining the pain and heartache flowing out of my feet and hands as they drift in the current. I am having terrible digestive issues as I have on and off for some years now, and I assume this particular flair up is due to the stress of the break up. Immersing my belly in the frigid water seems to help. Napping in the sun certainly seems to help. Laughing with my friends and hearing of their own individual issues and heartaches of life all help to pull my attention from “woe is me” and into empathy, good for both my belly and my heart.

We do an afternoon hike into the Hartwick Pines, and I find that if I am first on the trail, someone else is with me, too; if I fall back from the group because I stopped to take a picture, someone seems to hang back too; we are all just naturally aware of each other and I always have someone near to walk with. Sometimes conversation flows steadily, other times we walk in silence. Both are equally easy and comfortable. This is very new to me, exploring and enjoying nature with others. Of course I have hiked with friends over the years, but this easiness is like a new discovery, or perhaps a rediscovery. I’ve lived so long in an area where I have not connected with others, this weekend away with friends, particularly after my solitary birthday week, is very good for my soul. I think that I want to travel with people for a change going forward, that perhaps I should make that a goal.

One day we all canoe the Au Sable together, and I observe the dynamics of the husband/wife duo, the parent/child relationship, the father/son-in-law interactions, and feel like I’m seeing how “healthy” people navigate relationships. It is not all kindness and laughter; there are issues, grumpiness, ornery comments, and yet, there is no major “problem” or breakdown. Am I the one in my relationships that is unhealthy? Or do I simply choose the wrong people? Or I am only seeing the surface. Of course there is more, deeper – not necessarily bad or good. To paraphrase Shrek, we are all onions.

We see fish, otters, a great Grey Heron quietly fishing, and not a single, solitary turtle the whole time. We stop on sandy shores and swim and play, and hike into the forest. Four of the adults get terribly sunburned, which is ironic considering the meltdown the oldest child had about not wanting to wear his t-shirt (he remained un-burned, while those convincing him of the wisdom of covering up got fried). It is easy, and healthy, and healing. Friends make break ups so much more bearable.

A couple weeks later, long after the Au Sable weekend is over, my guy texts to see how I am doing. Eventually we agree to meet for dinner, and eventually we are tentatively, carefully, seeing each other again, loving each other immensely but somehow still not able to resolve any of our issues. We just avoid them, and I know in my heart this is absolutely the wrong way to handle things, but I also know I simply don’t have the energy to face what seem to be unsolvable issues.

I spend my last night in Michigan before a work trip to Boston with him at the cabin he is a caretaker for. We sit together, holding hands on the deck as we watch an immense thunderstorm roll through. It spreads across the whole sky, in front of us, above us, big booming claps of thunder before the rain comes. I don’t know what we are doing, how to define it, but I know it is so good to be back in his arms, cooking with him, and having him text good morning each day. We are in a bubble, treading so very carefully. I think of my trip with my friends, how there was no need to be so cautious with each other. What’s the difference, I wonder, as the clouds finally break open, unleashing sheets of rain across the valley and into the open windows of the cabin. Neither of us rush to take cover; we remain holding hands out on the deck, letting the rain pelt us, just in it together for as long as we can stand.