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A few weeks ago, I made a commitment for myself to always write something when I’m at the lake, for the rest of my life (or as long as I feel the commitment is serving me), and so far have been taking the time to write about all the things I appreciate. I am finding again and again that by focusing my attention on what I do have, what I do love, what does feel good and lifts me and makes me feel happy, I not only notice more and more of those good things but seem to attract better and better great things into my world.

I know now, in this summer of my life, that it’s okay to focus on the good, on the things that lift me and make me smile. It’s okay to let go of the things that do not. It’s easier now, certainly, because life has evened out to a great degree – there were so many years of financial hardship, heartache, and high stress with many unknowns, as is typical as people move from young adulthood to middle life.

I recognize fully that there is no reason to dwell on “if I had only realized sooner that all I need to do is focus on what is good”, because I also know that I did … I focused on the positive and the good things and all the blessings, through all those hardships, and that is what got me through. I worried far more than I should have (trust is a wonderful skill to hone), but I know I did my best, just as I am now.

Perhaps in 20 years I could look back at this stage of my life and think, “Lisa, you could have done so much better”, but to what end? I am happy today, and feeling so hopeful for the people of the world, and for the earth. It’s as simple as enjoying feeling this way. I know that I don’t feel good worrying about the state of things. I feel better thinking about the possibilities. I feel better opening to hope, instead of closing up in fear.

A mama robin has made a home for her babies in an old nest on a twig wreath hanging from my garage. There are three babies. They have so far grown from tiny, featherless, helpless little things to now tufted grumpy-looking baby birds, crowding each other for room and reaching their long necks, heads back and mouths wide open, waiting for mom to come feed them.

The mama flies off when I open the screen door to the house, and sits perched on the garage roof or on a limb, watching me, waiting for me to leave. She is okay with the dogs being outside, and if I sneak slowly, down low, hunched over, she will allow me to move past without flying away. I enjoy figuring out how to co-exist without disrupting her too much, mainly because I think we humans often tromp along, oblivious to how our actions affect other humans, let alone the natural world, in a rather clunky and obnoxious way.

I have so much of the natural world here, near my home, to keep me grounded, in touch with nature, and in mind of life’s beautiful things much greater than myself.

Yesterday, I learned of a car crash in our little town. Three young men my daughter and son-in-law went to school with had to be extricated from their vehicle that had wrapped around a tree in the early morning hours. The loss and pain from this event reverberate outward, as if the very impact of the crash itself sent shock waves into the community, like waves from a large stone dropped into a lake. I search for the good in it…for something to hold that makes some sense or gives it reason: perhaps someone, several people even, will learn from this event. Perhaps what feels at first so tragic and senseless will become a positive influence for choosing differently as those affected move forward through their days. Perhaps the positive influence will continue for a long time to come, like the ripples spreading across a vast and deep sea.

Later, as I drove out toward the great Lake Michigan shore, I noticed some very large birds soaring overhead – perhaps hawks, or turkey vultures, with massive wing spans throwing imposing shadows across the land below. Suddenly I saw a small bird dropped or flung or flying quickly away from the silhouetted bird of prey – I know that the hawks and vultures will steel babies from nests, and that often the parents will attack the large predators. I don’t know if the small bird was saving its young or escaping an abduction or just fending off a potential attack. I know it is just part of the evolution of life and there is no sense in feeling sad for the starling or for the predator who may have lost a meal. I am finally coming to understand the “zen” of what has long escaped me: how to just appreciate that which is. The birds just are. The cycle of life happens constantly, for we humans too. A virus lives, then dies. I suppose even a car crashing into a tree is a form of this as well, hard as it may be to accept. It is nearly always too soon for a parent to lose a son. It is nearly always sad and hard. Yet the birds continue to fly and we humans continue to step carefully or loudly through our days. How lovely is it that we do.

I walk the cemetery daily.  I walk out of my house each morning, often bundled against the still brisk morning air, down past the marsh (or is it a swamp?), past the several pairs of geese on their respective nests out in the water, who holler at me, and then as they begin to swim in my direction, at each other. I imagine they are geese gangs, talking smack, each defending their territory. If I’m lucky, I spot one of the two muskrats that live separately under each end of the bridge, swimming along, sleek and smooth and looking quite content, unbothered by the raucous birds.

When I reach the cemetery entrance, I can walk one of three ways, but all lead uphill. To the left is the curving path along the marsh (or swamp) edge, and to the right is the path parallel to the street that leads past the iron-gated monument that has had one of the crypt doors partway open for as long as I remember.  It’s creepy, that darkness gaping out from the slit, and I rarely walk that way for no reason other than it pulls me out of my happy thoughts and makes me guard against thinking of things I’ve no wish to ponder during my lovely morning walk.

I usually take the center path; it’s the steepest but lands me promptly into the cemetery’s midst, with lovely old headstones, beautiful large trees and their gracefully curving limbs and branches, and dirt pathways spidering off in any number of directions.  Breathing heavily from the hike upward, my mind shuts off any direction once I “arrive” and I simply follow where my feet lead, never the same route, sometimes against the wind, sometimes toward the sun, often because I’m heading toward something just ahead or across the grounds that catches my eye.

There is a feeling that I have when I camp, or when I am on vacation, that everything feels new, more vibrant, more interesting, more engaging, more alive.  Now, during this shut down, I really don’t know when I’ll camp again or visit my places up north. But it’s okay, because that feeling is with me now, here at home.  It’s been almost ten years that I have lived down the hill from this cemetery. Never have I spent so much time walking the beautiful grounds or even making it the destination of my walk – very often I have walked through the cemetery to the woods beyond, but these last weeks, my daily trek has become more than just a habit, more than just time away from the screen.  It beckons me.  I look forward to it just as I do my forays into lovely places when I’m traveling. 

One day in my cemetery space, I find I am drawn to the many different walls: some made of rocks, infiltrated by new plants pushing their way through, some crumbling or fallen; some walls start out smooth and raised, but eventually disappear into the earth. 

Another day I notice the many large old trees scattered throughout the headstones, their intricate layers of bark, huge branches, some strong and raised up to the sky, some twisted and falling, some splintered and smashed on the ground. 

One morning, I am having a hard time with whirling heavy thoughts, and I pause to lay my hands on the smooth inner bark of a dying Oak. Immediately I feel such calm.  Just stopping to take a breath, and feel the bark stills my mind, gives me something outside of myself to focus on. It’s enough.

Leave it to me to be practically giddy during a pandemic. This is an irony that doesn’t escape me, being that just two months ago I was bordering on falling into a deep melancholy. I was missing things, longing for things that I envisioned in my mind but that placed me in the past (“if only!”), and had me coming from a place of lack. And now, here we are, four weeks into the Stay at Home order for my state of Michigan, and I am giddy with joy and appreciation, seeing possibilities and positive things everywhere I look.

I want to be truthful that it was not always like this. At the beginning of the shutdown, I had my moments of worry in the night. Worry for my son-in-law’s health, as he continued working; worry and hurt for so many who are not able to work but who were not in any position to live without even one paycheck; worry about my dogs if I ended up at the hospital for a long stretch – who would take care of them!? I had some moments of visceral stress reactions, where my hands shook, even if I wasn’t consciously aware of exactly what was causing the stress. I napped more. I allowed myself to rest, and to turn off the news, and to read lots of good books.

I’ve now settled in with a lovely routine, and because it is so very routine (no room for much variation!), I am finding my attention drawn to fine details, the subtle differences that occur as just a regular part of nature, that I’ve long forgotten or been too busy or distracted to notice. Or at least to notice as often as I am now.

And this time, this down time, this much needed, welcome, incredibly restorative time, has helped me to find the joy, helped me to recognize when I’m having a negative thought, to turn it to something positive; or if that’s not possible, when I find a thought that pulls me down and feels heavy, I can at least strive to elevate my thoughts to the next step up on the emotional scale; and if that’s not possible, I can at least recognize that the thought is pulling me down, and I can choose to ignore it. I can choose to focus on something that feels light, that lifts me up, that buoys me, even if it’s totally unrelated to the downer.

Those methods are working for me. I’ve been doing the work, this is my work – this is my Lisa Improvement Project – this internal work of refocusing my thoughts, based on my emotions, and it’s working, let me tell you.

I see such joy and beauty in the world these days. I see children riding their bikes, parents playing with their kids, I see people taking time to do the things that make them happy. I see lots of people spending lots of time outdoors — in our state, that’s allowed as long as folks give each other a wide berth. I see the earth healing. The skies are so blue. The plane contrails aren’t mucking up my view or my auditory experience – it’s quiet! Things feel calmer in the world. The birds are singing – their song is being heard!

We have swans in Venice, sea turtles laying their eggs uninterrupted on beaches, views of the Himalayas unhindered by pollution and other majestic wonders that didn’t really take that long to “heal” – to undo the negative impacts of our species. It’s very promising to me. It feels like an absolute gift, for me, for the world.

There is darkness, but there is also light. Through a global pandemic, through politics and fear and sickness and hardship, the wonderful still makes its way through: There is love, there is healing, there is compassion and forgiveness and joy.

My winter has not been very wintery. I’m an extreme case, where the colder the temperatures the happier I am, and the deeper the snow, the more blissed out I get. We’ve had some snow, but nothing jaw-dropping, not even enough to close schools, and the temps have been closer to mild than cold. This is highly unusual for Michigan, though seems to be inching toward more the norm than I want to admit. Still, I’m finding that without subzero temperatures and feet of snow I can trek out of doors with little preparation or need to alert others of my plans.

The lake levels are incredibly high, mind-blowingly high. Trees are toppling into the lake, the shoreline eroded by the crashing waves, climbing higher and higher and loosening the sandy dunes. Man-made structures like play equipment,roads, and entire houses are being swallowed. I hear so many express sadness at this evolution, but I am not sad – I am amazed, in awe, exhilarated.

My old familiar places are so changed that I spend a good amount of time driving back roads to various points along the shore, discovering new trails and access points through the dunes to the water, which now, in many places, sits many feet below a cliff drop off due to the waves carving a whole new shoreline. Entire beaches have been swallowed; where once many hundreds of people could plan to lay their towel to sunbathe, the water is now at the sidewalk, or the road – the beach entirely gone. It’s fascinating to me, the power of water.

I discover a whole tribe of kiteboarders – people out on the water, in the water, above the water, who ride the swells and wind despite the frigid temperatures. I find I am drawn to this sport and admire the exhilaration it must bring. When I’m away from the water, I find I think a lot about kite boarding and how I can prepare myself to try it, build my upper body strength, perhaps in the summer, take some lessons. I can feel the sheer joy in their shouts of triumph, and laugh out loud as I sit huddled on the shore with a blanket around me, watching them sail through the sky for long periods of time, keenly aware of how hard they must be working, each muscle engaged within their dry suits, all their senses alert and adrenaline pumping, while I am still, simply witnessing, my breath slowing as I draw inward.

Other days the lake is quiet, still, smooth as glass. It’s stillness is also mesmerizing, hypnotic in its own way, calming and peaceful. I hope to someday live close enough to the lake to experience her glory every day – to be there with her as she rises, crashes, and as she calms and stills again.

I’ve been doing this thing where I am using up my stuff. I have all sorts of hotel toiletries collected from my work trips; I’m using up the lotions, the soaps, the mouthwashes; finding homes (donating) the shampoos, the mini hand sanitizers. I am using up my many varieties of tea – a cupboard full. I’m not buying any of my favorites; I’m revisiting those I have and taking great satisfaction when yet another container is empty.

My condiments, my cleaners, my pens and pencils and various stationary; things I have forgotten I had and wasn’t even aware that I have so much of, I’m using and enjoying and finding a strange excitement when the last whatever it is is used, done, finis.

The list goes on, as does this odd little habit for some weeks. I am sure it is related to my hibernating patterns, my reemergence from some melancholy at the mild winter months and mild heartache. I don’t want to be here – I want to be elsewhere. I want winter. I want snow. I want to be up north. I am somehow preparing for my eventual exit…eventually I will list the house, I will move, I will be able to start new.

The early days of the year, I was nursing my broken heart, or revisiting it anyway. I know he’s not the one for me, but it was so nice to be loved, even for a little while. To love and be loved. I don’t like being stuck in the past—or the future, for that matter. I daily work to pull myself out of the funk, journaling for the purpose of identifying my desires and shifting my focus to what I desire.

For a while, I wallow. I sit in the ache and the hurt and the yuck, and I just allow it. Why I’m still in this town, in this house, in this solitary life. I let it wash through me in great dramatic swells. I give it the attention it’s been wanting, and discover of course that what I am missing or mourning was nothing like I am making it out to be — my town has been wonderful, filled with generosity and kindness, my home is so comfortable, solid and warm and safe, a true haven for the past decade. What “could have been” with my former love can still be – perhaps with someone else, a different place, another time. In a world of infinite possibilities, who am I to say that I missed my chance or that I had only the one opportunity for happiness, or that my ship has sailed. I realize too that in letting go of that ache, that hurt I was holding on to was some strange form of comfort.

Instead of looking for joy in using up my stuff, I begin to focus on what I do have – what does bring comfort, right here, right now. My dogs, my best pals ever. The daily walks we take into gorgeous woods with all sorts of splendor. My daughter and her husband, the two kindest people I know. My wonderful porch, with the windows and the pillows and the heater. I focus on these things, allow them to be enough, and they rapidly become so much more.

It’s the time of year most people reflect and make resolutions, but I feel a bit worn out from all the reflecting and resoluting I’ve been doing, so most of the holidays have been spent going moment by moment, keeping things simple, and enjoying company when I have it and quiet when I do not.

I am spending some time with an old love, which is in itself lovely. We seem to have an unspoken agreement that it is just for the holidays, which makes it all the more precious. One evening we wander out to the Lake and walk along the radically eroded shore in the moonlight while the wind blows sideways into our torsos. I take photos using my nightvision camera for the first time and am amazed at how different the camera interprets the scene from how my eyes and senses do.

Another evening we are driving in the middle of nowhere and something makes me lean forward to look up through the top edge of the windshield just in time to catch a brilliant shooting star as it flares and leaves its trail. I have never seen one burst that brightly or sizzle for that long. I was with this same man the last time I saw a shooting star, some years ago. I don’t bother reading anything into it.

The next day, as we are heading down the road, we both begin to puzzle over what we see hanging in the sky, unable to figure out what seems to be a spotlight or brilliant flare just suspended, still, bright. We stop numerous times to look and take photos, and later learn it is a Sundog.

There are so many things I’ve never seen — I’ve been trying to catch the northern lights for years with no luck so far — and some things of course I never will. Some things I’ve never even heard of. I wonder sometimes if I’ll even know that I’ve seen a phenomenon when one happens. I wonder how I know with such certainty I want to live in Michigan, and that I want to live north. I’ve never even been to 3 of the earth’s continents, or hundreds of its countries. I know that I am chasing after a feeling, an ideal, an emotion, a frequency for my life. Little by little I am trying to let go of how I will get there, where “there” is, and all the pesky details. It’s so much easier to say than to do – letting go of old habits, letting go of regrets or ruminating on what was, what could have been, or limiting beliefs of what is possible. I know I need only focus my attention and intention on the magical, mystical, beautiful sights and places and things that bring me feelings of eagerness and hope. It just takes practice.

I am finding as my mind leans forward into the possibilities of my future that I see the things around me with a bit more clarity and appreciation. My little town, the town I’ve lived in now for 12 years, has some wonderful aspects I have grown to appreciate a great deal. Just the other day as I was cleaning my car with the shop-vac outside of my garage after taking the Great Furred One (my white German Shepard) on a drive, I unknowingly hit the lock button, with the keys in the ignition. This is probably the fourth time I’ve had to call the police over the years to open my car for me. Inevitably the kind officer showed up within 15 minutes, and not far behind him, a huge tow truck to lend moral support. After recovering my keys, the tow truck driver and the cop stood in my driveway for a good 30 minutes just chatting and laughing.

The trails that I run my dogs on (the dogs run; I do not) are miles of intertwined paths through beautiful forests, just up the road from me. When I forget to trust, I wonder where I’ll take my pooches to have such freedom (for all of us) in my future unknown place. I’ve shared the seasons of these forests as the dogs have grown older, one has died, another has grown up and is now sporting some grey patches. I remember walking these trails with my exchange daughters, in winter, spring, summer, and fall. I have, some years ago when I was just starting to re-enter the dating world, walked these trails on a couple of dates, providing a fine opportunity for starting to get to know a man. It’s very hard to think of leaving these woods. I sometimes have such a hard time imagining finding something so idyllic that I even picture driving the dogs back to this little town now and then, to walk them on these trails they’ve been sniffing and hunting and peeing on for years. I imagine they’ll miss them. What I have to remind myself of, to not forget to remember, is that it’s entirely possible I will find something even better. Something sublime. Even euphoric.

My commute to work is all back country roads. There is a farm with a farmhouse, barn, and silo I’ve been taking photos of in early morning light through various seasons that I will miss a great deal. Farmland borders much of the drive, intermixed with swamp and forest, and for one stretch a farmer’s field is so low that it floods repeatedly, collecting water that overflows onto the roadway. It gets deep enough that cars going at the full mph will be in for a jarring surprise, probably a wreck (I’ve seen two), and in the winter, it freezes and brings about it’s own set of dangers for hurried drivers. I think about this area, about the farmer who has tried to dig a gully or a ditch to offset the low land, about the orange barrels the road commission places to warn of the water over the road, that for the past year they’ve just left in place since nearly every season brings with it a danger. These familiar places have served as landmarks, spun threads of thought as I ponder the what, why, and how, and brought many odd moments of comfort. I stay alert approaching the spots where the deer tend to cross, and anticipate the spots where the leaves fall like a fairy tale, the snow drifts in blankets of frosting, and the sun dapples the road through the tree tops.

It’s hard to leave a place you’ve lived, a home you know the quirks of, the sounds from the road, the sounds of the house settling on its bones. It’s hard, but sometimes it’s the very best, very bravest choice. I think that’s true for me, if I am to live an honest and fulfilling life.