He Gives Me Space

I'm typing feverishly. There's too much to do. It's already 11am.

Dirty bottles, laundry, and emails are piled up, and I offhandedly say, “I feel like I shouldn't go camping.”

We glance at each other. We both know that was a ridiculous thing to say.

Two hours later, we unload my gear at my campsite. We hug for a long time. I know he has a busy night ahead of him. Our five-year old goes to bed late and our 6-month-old has been waking up every few hours.

We kiss goodbye and he drives away. It's just me now. It's quiet.

Grounded

I take off my socks and shoes and start to move around my campsite. I organize my stuff and set up my tent. This is home for the night.

I was going to take a hike, but I realize, I don't have to do anything. And I feel like staying right here.

There's a tree in the center of my site. It’s about a foot in diameter, but over a hundred feet tall. I sit down in front of it and put my hands on the trunk.

I close my eyes. I feel the breeze on my skin. I feel the ruggedness of the trunk.

That busy feeling starts to dissolve.

After some time, I realize this isn't my home. It's the tree's. It's here, day and night, summer and winter. I'm visiting.

I sit longer.

I hear the layers of sounds around me. Cicadas, birds, wind. I start to feel a hum in my body.

More time, and I realize this isn’t the tree's home – it’s Mother Nature’s. And I'm part of it. I feel at one with the tree, the air, the ground I'm sitting on. I feel all of our energy moving as one.

I open my eyes. I notice neon green moss growing on the tree trunk and all the movement around me, the leaves and small animals. This place that felt so quiet an hour earlier now feels alive.

I stand up and stretch. I do tai chi. I dance. I do handstands. I look like a nut, but no one is here to stare. My hands, legs, and feet are covered with dust.

Eventually, I roll out a mat, lie flat on my back, and slide a yoga block under my right hip.

I lay there for a long time, watching the leaves fall until I feel aligned.

I stand up. I'm ready to hike.

Freedom

Deeper in the woods, the trees feel massive. I breathe in every vitamin my body needs.

I hike in my bare feet for a long time.

Two deer bounce through the ferns up ahead. I feel like them. I feel light. Free.

As the sun lowers, I make my way back to my campsite.

I didn't bring food with me. I want to feel clean and clear. I start a fire and poke at it as I read Siddhartha.

It's pitch black by the time I crawl into my tent.

The wind starts to howl and then the rain comes, pat… pat. pat… pat….. pat… loud on my tent. First slow, then in sheets. I sleep hard.

Ready

The morning is cold. I do squats to keep warm and watch the sky lighten. The birds are waking up.

I brew coffee with the jet boil. My hands go numb each time I take off my mittens.

I meditate, stretch, read, then pack up my site.

My family pulls up at 11am.

My stomach is empty. My head, clear. I'm ready.

My five-year old yells, “Mommy!” and runs at me.

Whenever I tell my parents I go camping by myself, their heads tilt, and they say, “Huh.”

But that space, alone in nature, is a gift to me.

The camp site costs $30. I’d pay $300. It's 24 hours but feels like a week.

That space helps me relish in the fullness of my life at home. The excitement of work. The family gatherings. The sweet baby sleeping on my chest at 3am.

A coach once told me to notice all the empty space in a crowded room or airport. We tend to focus on all the people and objects, but there's always more space than we realize. Sometimes, moms just need to notice that the option of finding space is there for them.

It can be hard to step away because everyone and everything needs you. But when you put it on your calendar and make it happen, you come back almost aching to step back into your role.

I look at my happy, tired husband and give him another hug.