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Choosing to pause
In 1950, when Anne Morrow Lindbergh took a five-day solo retreat on Captiva Island in South Florida, it came as an offbeat and unlikely pause in the midst of what she called her ‘untidy, complicated’ life. As a pioneer aviator, socialite and poet, she enjoyed adventurous exploits and ‘firsts’ with her husband and fellow pilot, Charles Lindbergh. In 1929, she became the first woman in the US to earn a glider pilot’s licence. The following year, she served as navigator on a transcontinental flight with her husband which set a new speed record. Lindbergh also lived in the searing light of public criticism, political controversy, and exploited grief after the kidnapping and death of her firstborn son, all while mothering five remaining children on a very global stage. Her life was no beach vacation.
Telling the truth
During her time on Captiva Island, Lindbergh began writing a small volume of essays, which she published in 1955 as Gift from the Sea. The book arrived like a message in a bottle to an audience of post-war women. Almost 70 years later, many of Lindbergh’s simple and honest reflections about the rhythms of life, the tensions between relationships and vocation continue to speak to a more modern audience, too.
Lasting impact
In that fleeting window on Captiva, Lindbergh had a moment to tell herself the truth and to see herself in the world around her. Later, she said that she wrote those essays in order to “work out my own problems.” By taking a pause, she gained insight that brought a new sense of order, clarity and meaning to her life that stayed with her until her death decades later at 94. Much of her external world and situation remained the same, but she reframed her roles and responsibilities. She simplified the phases of motherhood and marriage in her mind, including the “not beautiful, but functional” oyster bed of midlife.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
Overcoming inertia
I confess that while I believe in the value of retreat and in the power of pause, I don’t easily commit to them, even if I feel a mounting need for change or for more. I can easily settle for my current reality, with a couple of exceptions:
Exception one
I get slammed by some wave of adversity or flipped by a deep need that makes obvious my need to regroup and rethink my life. Simultaneously, an unexpected opportunity arises that matches my need. When the need and the provision arrive at once, there is no time to get in my own way. I often jump aboard without much forethought, and I am often relieved at how quickly insight, connection and equilibrium follow. Nature and people speak to me. My soul appears. I can hear my best thoughts again.
This happened to me in my early 20s. Stung by the betrayal of a friend, I took a ferry from Vancouver to join a group of strangers on tiny Thetis Island. I thought I was running away for comfort, to feel safe for a while, but the pause and the sea had other gifts for me. On Thetis, I saw myself clearly again not just in the musty conference rooms of a retreat centre, but in the “mushy vulnerability” of the sea— in the words of a naturalist along the shore, in the curling bark of arbutus trees with their layers of variegated beauty, and in the discarded shells of growing hermit crabs washed up in tidal pools. Since then, I’ve been a hermit crab and an arbutus, for life.
Exception two
The build-up is slow. I sense my need to find more clarity or to break free from the demands of my everyday life, but I tend to talk myself out of anything formal or organized. I stall. I wonder. I dabble in unstructured reading and research. I scroll. I talk with friends. I suffer a bit. And then, eventually, I find myself open to an offering that a trustworthy friend or associate points me toward: something they’ve read, experienced, led or found that opened up an important pathway for them to move forward with meaning.
This happened more recently. I was stuck at a vocational crossroads. I had to choose between projects, partners, and different business models. I wondered if I could wade in to my options or if impact really only comes to those who dive headfirst into the depths. I didn’t know how to process what mattered to me, how to weigh my options with my values. So, I stalled. I wondered. I dabbled. I scrolled. And then I saw an invitation to bring one big life question to ponder at A Day by the Sea. I knew and trusted Peter Reek as the facilitator. So I signed up.
I arrived to a panoramic view of the islands off the Pacific coast where I had gone decades ago to retreat on Thetis. Even before the program began, in greetings and conversation with others, I had already received insight into my question, and sensed the interest and intention of others. Like Lindbergh’s time on Captiva, the day by the sea offered me room to think, to tell myself the truth. It invited me to pause and pay attention. Through self-reflection, intent listening, effective coaching and honest conversation, I came away with simple but enduring insights that have reframed my vocational identity.
The pause is the thing
Some people love retreating to the sea, and others to deserts or mountains, urban parks or small corners of their own mind. Wherever you prefer to take it, the effects of a true pause are the same. With less effort than it takes to organize a garage or a kitchen drawer, we can slow for as little or as long as we have, and start shedding our excess, living in the moment, seeing what matters. We can go from clutter to clarity, complexity to simplicity, reaction to response, passing observation to enduring insight. Even when our circumstances or surroundings remain much the same, the power to reframe and reconfigure our approach is right there in an offbeat and unlikely pause.
‘The key to pursuing excellence is to embrace an organic, long-term learning process, and not to live in a shell of static, safe mediocrity. Usually, growth comes at the expense of previous comfort or safety. The hermit crab is a colorful example of a creature that lives by this aspect of the growth process (albeit without our psychological baggage.) As the crab gets bigger, it needs to find a more spacious shell. So the slow, lumbering creature goes on a quest for a new home. If an appropriate new shell is not found quickly, a terribly delicate moment of truth arises. A soft creature that is used to the protection of built-in armor must now go out into the world, exposed to predators in all its mushy vulnerability. That learning phase in between shells is where our growth can spring from. Someone stuck…is like an anorexic hermit crab, starving itself so it doesn’t have to grow.’
― Josh Waitzkin, The Art of Learning: A Journey in the Pursuit of Excellence
