Finding the Rhythm Again

Well. It’s been almost two years since I wrote anything here.

Yikes.

I could probably come up with a thoughtful explanation about life getting busy, priorities shifting, kids and work and responsibilities and all of the other things that fill the spaces where creativity used to live. And all of that would be true.

Mostly, though, I think I just forgot how to give myself enough room to hear myself think.

I spend a lot of my life doing. Working. Parenting. Making. Solving problems. Figuring out how to make something work better or faster or more efficiently. Moving from one thing that needs me to the next thing that needs me.

And I actually like a lot of that. I like work. I like solving problems. I like learning new things and making things and following an idea down a rabbit hole just to see where it goes.

But apparently even people who like doing things need to occasionally stop doing all the things.

Who knew.

I was reminded of that recently in one of my favorite places, on the coast of Maine, standing on a paddleboard with absolutely nowhere I needed to be.

The ocean was glass.

Not like glass in the slightly exaggerated way we sometimes describe calm water. Actually glass. Not a ripple as far as my eyes could see.

My paddle slipped into the water and pulled back, then again.

Reach. Dip. Pull.

Reach. Dip. Pull.

There is this point when you're paddling where you stop thinking about paddling. Your body figures it out before your brain does. The balancing and reaching and pulling all settle into a rhythm, and eventually the effort turns into this strange meditative ease.

You aren't trying to get anywhere anymore.

You're just moving.

The board glides beneath you. The paddle dips into the water. Your breathing slows. Your shoulders drop a little.

And the part of your brain that has been running seventeen tabs at once finally, mercifully, shuts up.

Even our usual companions were nowhere to be seen. The suspicious seals who typically stalk our outings from a carefully calculated distance—popping their heads up just long enough to make sure we know we're being watched—were hidden somewhere below that perfectly still surface.

I knew they were there.

Somewhere.

Judging us, probably.

But above the water, everything was quiet.

And somewhere in all of that quiet, I felt inspired again.

Not necessarily in the dramatic, I have returned to my creative self! kind of way. More like I suddenly had enough space for a thought to wander in that wasn't attached to a deadline, a deliverable, a grocery list, a calendar notification, or something somebody needed from me.

I remembered how much I love this.

The water. Maine. Making things. Writing things. Noticing things.

Oceane's Echo started because I wanted somewhere for all of those pieces of me to meet. The ocean and art and words and whatever strange little thing caught my attention that day. Somewhere along the way, life got louder and this space got very quiet.

Maybe that's okay.

Maybe creativity has rhythms, too.

There are times when you're paddling hard because you need to get somewhere. Times when you're fighting wind or current and every stroke feels like work. And then, every once in a while, the wind disappears. The ocean turns to glass. You find your rhythm.

And suddenly you're gliding.

So, after almost two years away, I don't have a grand plan for what happens here next. I'm not making myself a content calendar or setting a posting schedule or turning something I love into another thing I have to accomplish.

I'm just dipping the paddle back in.

Reach. Dip. Pull.

And seeing where it takes me.