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Remember that feeling? The last days of school, walking home with nothing in your backpack but snacks, crumpled papers and a half-signed yearbook. The lazy summer stretching out in front of you, an endless string of unhurried moments. I can still feel it… The gorgeous way everything just stopped to make room for the rest and ease of summer.
Now, at 47, summer feels different. (To be fair, most things feel different). Where I once had that sweet, spacious, lazy feeling, I find a saltier sense of anticipation infused with adult responsibility, a deep appreciation for rest, and a tinge of angst.
I wonder, dear reader, how this summer feels for you…
Maybe you’re facing (another) summer without someone you love.
Maybe you’re preparing for an empty nest as your teen heads off to college.
Maybe you’re in a time of ease where things feel peaceful and restorative.
Maybe you're heading into your first summer with a diagnosis that’s hard to carry.
Maybe you’re retired and living in a sort of perpetual state of summer with nothing but open roads ahead.
Maybe you’re just switching from the work/school hustle to the work/camp shuffle, with an added yearning to create magical summer memories for your people (campfires, s’mores, twinkle lights, swimming pools).
Maybe languishing has been your steady companion for a while now, and your summer day feels just like any other day, only more humid.
However you’re experiencing it, summer is here. In the words of Frederick Buechner: “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
“A bit heavy for a summer newsletter,” you say? Fair. But stay with me.
Here is the world
By the time we reach midlife, we know that life can be at once devastatingly painful, surprisingly joy-filled and tediously mundane. In its own way, this summer is also likely to be both too much and not enough, energizing and exhausting, beautiful and difficult.
“Reality is paradoxical,” says Richard Rohr. “If we’re honest, everything is a clash of contradictions, and there is nothing on this created earth that is not a mixture at the same time of good and bad, helpful and unhelpful, endearing and maddening, living and dying.”
While our lives are made up of paradoxical experiences, feelings, expectations and hopes all nestled together, we live in a culture that largely denies that. It looks down on uncertainty, nuance and complexity, favouring instead uniformity, certainty and immovability. It rewards the swift rejection of anything that seems to contradict or conflict with our ideas.
We see this in the deep polarization and steep decline in meaningful, respectful conversation among people with differing viewpoints. Across digital media, I see steady streams of stories yelling about how the world (or at least humanity) is coming to an end — and how clear it is who’s to blame. Of course, there are reasoned and thoughtful voices, too, but they are often drowned out by the rushing current of shocking and polarizing content.
We also see it in the pull of constant distraction. Reel after reel of shiny people offering easy diversions from the messiness of our real lives; promising the secret to an idyllic summer and the elusive magic of youth. They perpetuate what British psychologist Robert Holden calls destination addiction, “a preoccupation with the idea that happiness is somewhere else.” They work to keep us convinced that while happiness is never right where we are, it is most assuredly just on the other side of this trip, that renovation or one more purchase.
In a culture like this, it can be difficult to live right in the here and now, inhabiting the lives we actually have.
Inhabiting our imperfect, midlife summer
Inhabit (verb)
/inˈhabət/
To live in or be present in a place or environment
To occupy as a place of settled residence or habitat
One of the invitations of life’s second half* is to expand; to make room within ourselves to accept and welcome all the messy and paradoxical parts of ourselves and of the world. This involves growing pains, and enduring the discomfort of holding our own complexities, contradictions and inconsistencies. This work of expanding helps us become more present in our lives, and more compassionate toward ourselves and others.
Imagine what it would feel like to accept every part of the summer (and life) you actually have? Not the one “out there” in the future, in the reels or in your head... the one you’re living right now.
“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.
Make room
Some of us find it hard to make room for the harder emotions and experiences in life - like grief, sadness or rage. Others of us find it really difficult to make room for ease, joy or delight in our days - especially if life has felt like a tough slog for a long time. Sometimes it just feels safer not to get our hopes up. What do you find hardest to welcome? Is it the joy or the pain? Is it the struggle or the ease? Consider how you might make just a bit more room for that.
Imagine how it would feel if you could make room this summer for:
the hard, the easy and the tedious;
the confusing, the clear and the unknowable;
joy, pain and ambivalence;
confidence and uncertainty;
loneliness and comfort;
grief and joy;
significance and finitude;
failure and success.
As your own beautiful, imperfect summer begins, consider this your official invitation to make room for all of it; and to hold it with a tenderness you might not have afforded yourself when those summer days felt endless.
Here at InHabit, through the summer months and beyond, we’ll be exploring the many facets of what it means to live well in our second half of life.
We won’t try to sell you “5 days to your best beach body,” or tell you to hustle harder when you’re exhausted (rest, please). Neither will we suggest that hope is futile in a messy world. I’m an advocate at heart and know just how gritty and powerful hope is, and how slow - and possible - growth and transformation can be.
Amidst the noise of distraction and division, we’ll be right here, working to bring you honest, thoughtful, hopeful and generative conversations about inhabiting the lives we actually have.
*You may notice we often use the terms midlife and second half of life interchangeably. Both terms have a chronological meaning and typically refer to the time in life that begins in our 40s. The term second half of life is also a psychological concept coined by psychiatrist Carl Jung. According to Jung, after a more egocentric first half of life marked by external pursuits and identity-building, the second half of life is a period of significant inward exploration. In our second half, we are tasked with rigorous self-examination and an inward journey toward meaning and wholeness.
