The BOLD (I Wish You Growth Here)
Sitting on a rock that jutted out into the air at the highest elevation on the Skyline Drive, I watched three ravens fly in joyous formation, flipping over each other, wing tips rippling in the wind. The sky was startlingly blue and clear all the way down to the valley far below where farms blanketed the velvet floor of the world. The air was cool and soothing after so much Summer heat and humidity. Nearby, two little girls earnestly named the tadpoles swimming in a natural bowl of water caught in the granite.
Our family decided to travel to the mountains this past weekends to hike. It was a necessary time of recharge and re-connection for us. As we drove west from our home south of Richmond, I realized that it was the first time I’d been more than 15 miles from home in six months.
It is funny that we sometimes have to wander to remember what we love about home. In spending time in one place, we prepare for and refresh our energy to serve our time in other places. This season prepares us for the next in ways we can’t even imagine.
Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.
John Muir
The Whisper (For the Season to Come)
The naturalist author John Muir mused that he wanted to become, “more sequoial” like the trees he admired. He preferred living rough with stars as a ceiling as he wandered and guided others to wander in amongst the giant trees of the west. He wrote books that influenced a nation and hosted President Teddy Roosevelt on a sojourn into wild spaces that ultimately inspired the preservation of Yellowstone National Park and, indeed, the formation of the national park system itself.
His writings make it clear that he required regular time alone in the woods. It is interesting, then, that for ten years this man of the wild devoted himself to the cultivation and care of domestic trees. His Father in Law owned a spectacular orchard—2,600 acres of fruit and nut bearing trees. From 1880 to 1890, Muir managed the orchard and cultivated his family. Many of his devoted fans—academics, preservationists and readers of all ilk—mourn this period because, in the flow of his management work and his personal commitments, he suspended his writing. This important voice was silent for a decade.
There is much evidence, though, that in this time of shifted priorities, John Muir matured. In caring for domestic trees and in loving his family, his care and love for the wild spaces deepened. This period of retreat from the central cause of his life honed his effectiveness and inspired his devotion to what mattered most to him—and to the rest of us. His sabbatical in the orchard and his ten years of silence fed the final years of his work.
Right now, we are in a massive retrenchment. No matter what you do and no matter how you have been accustomed to do it, you have faced challenges that necessitate new ways of working, relating and contributing. It is tempting to see this as an interruption to our plans.
What if this is our orchard sabbatical?
What we learn right now about the true nature of what is essential, beneficial, and optional for us will inform how we live the rest of our lives—if we pay attention. One of my clients noticed recently that he doesn’t miss mindlessly wandering the aisles of stores or even spending hours at the ballfield for his kids’ sports. Instead, he relishes the time watching his kids play with the family dog in the yard.
This season is particularly challenging for many of us. We have in our DNA the urge to lean into the work necessary for harvest, to prepare for winter. A significant portion of our lives has been spent living in the school year rhythm—even if we don’t have kids now, we were kids once.
It was one thing to live with the changes and the challenges in the Summer. For many of us, Summer is a season where we ease up on our routines. Children run free. Meetings slow and co-workers disappear in sequence on their vacations. In some ways, this camouflaged some of the broader disruption.
As we’ve moved towards Autumn, however, the urge to tighten our routines, to return to normal has intensified. There is, for many, a dawning awareness that the prevailing notion of a swift end to the pandemic has always been unlikely. Add to this natural disasters, a contentious national election and painful but necessary conversations about racial equity and we have a recipe for a tumultuous season.
Again, what if this is our orchard sabbatical? This season of uncertainty and creativity, of boredom and anxiety will change us and we have a choice what lessons we want to learn. Even with all the uncertainty, we know what this season holds right now. What we don’t know is what the next season holds. This is our orchard sabbatical, and we have a choice how we will invest in ourselves, how we will find the joy in simple moments, and how we will prepare to thrive. We invest in this season in service of what we will need in the next.
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