I’m sitting in a park in Old Quebec surrounded by ancient buildings. Bells are ringing with abandon from all directions and a nearby fountain is whispering, “Breathe deeply, my friend.”
Author: Marlys Lawry Page 18 of 54
On a recent road trip to Ferndale in northern California, I drove over the Cascade Range, through the redwoods, and then turned left at the Pacific Ocean.
Stepping into a new season of life can be exciting and breath-taking and dream-engineering: Graduation. That job you’ve always wanted. A new love. Your first house. A much-anticipated baby.
Slow isn’t my normal speed. I walk quickly, type quickly, clean house quickly, stack firewood quickly.
None of those are necessarily bad. But there are some things worth slowing down for.
“Depression — you’re welcome to hike up to Tam MacArthur Rim with me,” I said out loud after waking up on the blue side yesterday, “… but I doubt you’ll be able to keep up.”
Even though my life is good and full and there’s no reason for it, depression and anxiety often wake up with me.
My husband, Gary, and I had several favorite trails in the Oregon Cascades. One of my brave-making goals is to eventually re-hike all of them. Alone.
One of my closest friends from high school, Cheryl—whose brother I married—walked beside her husband, Steve, as he entered hospice care last week.
My husband, Gary, and I climbed several mountains during his cancer years. The highest elevation we ever reached was a trail ending at an icy-cold lake in the Colorado Rockies — 13,850 feet up.
There was the statement that resonated with me: “If we’re not content single, we won’t be content married.”
A close friend’s husband has cancer. They’re saying maybe three, maybe four months.
And then there’s my sweet friend who lost her husband and young son to a sneaker wave. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Tragically.
