no little cabin in the woods

On this day last year, we packed up and headed home from our annual trip to the lake.

Two years ago, when it was time to schedule some time at the lake, we were told that there wasn't a time slot for us. After a little (probably a lot) of shifting and likely some sacrificing of days on the part of the growing (now multi-generational) family that owns the cabin, we got a week up there. We knew not to take it for granted.

This year, with the pandemic, the scheduling date came and went. We have had our own health concerns and uncertainty about travel, so when word came back that the family had filled the summer schedule due to no other travel plans, and there were no days for us, it was expected. But I turned off the computer and I cried.

This is the first summer that we don't get to spend time up there at the little house in the woods. This special place, accessible only by water, has been an annual get-away for my family since my older brother was an infant.  Every summer, since I began blogging, I have written about it, and I have to do so this year, even though I have no new moments to share, because a piece of me is missing. This place is my marker of time. It is where the cycle of my year is re-calibrated. Even now, typing this, seeing these images, posting links to past posts (below), I am emotional.

2020 is full of grieving, isn't it? So many lives lost. So much living lost. Racial, political, economic loss and tension. This is the year when nothing is the same. (And yet everything is the same, day after day, lost in sameness.)

There have been moments this summer, when I have been out for a hike or near water, and the splashing sound, or breeze through the trees, or the certain smell of the sun on the earth will spark a whole body feeling of being up there, and if I just close my eyes...

We have talked about taking a road trip up to the lake, just to hike or paddle. There is hesitation. "It's not the same." A few days in the cabin on the lake is the kind of sameness we need. We crave the celebratory anchors. We have known our time there might come to an end, but I will hold hope for next summer.

The last 4 years of posts from this particular blog.
2019
2018
2017
2016