REVEALING YOURSELF THROUGH THE WATERS OF THE WORLD

It’s a beautiful evening in Oregon. We sit on the upper deck of a restaurant overlooking a field of farmland, snow-capped mountains in the distance, a sunken sun blasting rays of orange across the sky. The day will end in a blaze of glory – surely, not an unusual sight. The sun is mostly glory, especially where we live in California – a place where the sun does not shy away from showing off. But to us, this sunset – this one sunset is the first we’ve paused to witness as a family of five – my husband, Boyd, myself, our two college-aged twin daughters and our son, a junior in high school – in many months. I hate to admit it, but it is the truth. Life moves a mile a minute. When the kids were younger, the sun and the moon were not only favorite topics of conversations, but they were also daily events. To see what the sun would do with the day, to put eyes on the moon at night was in and of itself a glory to behold.  Now, the girls use their phones to track the UV index and seek out peak times of day where they will get tan faster. My son’s primary concern is temperature. He wants to know how hot he is going to be – because somewhere along the away, he’s decided that sweatpants are a year-long wardrobe staple.

So, here we are in Oregon – a place we’ve never been as a family, beginning a new annual tradition – an intentional week together in a novel location, to slow it all down, be more connected to nature and share a travel experience as a group. Not just catch a sunset, but rather – revere the last of a day’s light, share a meal, have a conversation with no phones, be in the energy of a new environment, laugh, get to know each other.

Boyd is the driver of this tradition. I am a willing participant, and in parental solidarity, a co-leader – but Boyd is the adventurer of the two of us. He’s been curious about creating meaningful family trips for ten years now. With our professional obligations alongside the fact that most of our extended family lived out of state, we chose not to prioritize travel for our nuclear family. If we took a trip, it was to see extended family or our friends. Our lives have shifted. We have more autonomy in our professions, most of Boyd’s family now lives near us in Los Angeles, and the idea of sharing new experiences with our young-adult-children has gained priority. Our first trip was a week in Maui, Hawaii. This year, it is a week in Bend, Oregon.

“Ok, kids, what do you want to do this week?” Boyd leans back in his chair, cold beer in hand – he is truly, with his family, in heaven.

“I’m a horse girl,” Ryan announces. This is totally new to me, but she insists that she has been interested in horses since she rode horses at a summer sleep-away camp when she was 11 years old. “I’d love to ride horses here…”

“I’ll do that,” Mimi says.

“Me, too,” Myles says. “And it would be fun to play golf.”

“Are you interested in golf?” I ask Myles.

“Sure. Yeah, sort of.” This is also news to me. Boyd and I are not golfers, and while my dad has tried to introduce golf to Myles here and there when Myles visits New Orleans, this is the first I’ve heard Myles being intrigued with the sport.

“OK – I’ll play golf with you,” I look at Boyd, “What about you?”

“I’ll get us a tee time…” Boyd says, “…girls?” They don’t want to come.

“Also, I booked a fly-fishing guide to take us out on Thursday – it’s a half day,” Boyd says.

We’re all excited for this excursion – besides Boyd, none of us has tried this kind of fishing.

Our appetizers arrive and Mimi reaches for her phone as a bunch of hungry eyes survey the order. Mimi lifts the camera above the various plates and clicks – she is the keenest to photograph food. However, as far as family experiences go, culinary escapades are the top of everyone’s list, except for mine.

“What do you want to do this week?” Mimi asks me as she savors a bite of crudo. “That is fire,” she says to Ryan.

“Paige, you gotta try this,” Boyd says. Boyd is always wanting me try things – always wanting me to share the meal in a fuller way.

“I’ll try it,” Myles scoops up a bite. The two of them agree it’s delicious and I am off the hook.

“Mamma…” Mimi holds my gaze, “what do you want to do this week?”

“I’d like to take a walk by the river – separate from fly fishing. It can be a hike or a stroll…I just want to be by the water.”

“I’ll do that with you,” Ryan says.

“We got you,” Mimi says.

It is our last night in Bend. Boyd and the girls are in the hot tub. Myles is watching the highlights of a NBA championship game on his phone, texting with friends. We have eaten all the foods, caught the fish with a fly hook, stopped counting the putts as a stroke on the golf course, the kids rode the horses, we shot the clay pigeons at the shooting range, and drove with the windows down admiring the cows and goats and spectacular sunsets. By all accounts, we have had a terrific family trip. We have laughed. We have gotten to know each other. Myles could be really good at golf. Ryan loves horses. Mimi managed to sneak away for slips of time to complete assignments for an online course I didn’t know she was taking. Boyd has been relaxed, free from his work schedule, indulging fancy meals and exuberant in the shared activities with his kids. Boyd says he could stay another week – a brand new way of being for a man who used to barely be able to take a long weekend.

Tomorrow is our last day. Our flight leaves in the afternoon.

I can see the moon through the pine trees outside of my window. I want to be completely at peace with the week. I want to be like Boyd – and wish for more days on vacation.

But for me, something is missing.

On this trip, I have not been alone.

I have not walked by the water. I have not done the thing that I like to do on trips – absorb the way the local people live around me, sit still and watch. I haven’t walked through a bookstore or ordered a tea in a café. I have been so focused on my family, and rightly so, but it’s left me missing me in Oregon.

There’s so much to know about the people I love, there’s so much to discover about the emerging people I call daughter or son – sometimes I forget that I am also getting to know myself, sometimes I forget to let myself discover me in the same new places I am discovering them. As much as I cherish the time we spend as a family, and I appreciate the gift it is to travel with each other, I feel a wave of longing. It is part sadness, part dissatisfaction, part hope, part inspiration and part love.

I pull out my phone and text the family:

We’re heading into Bend early tomorrow – we will get lunch by the river.

Plan to be packed by 10 am. xox

The Deschutes River is bustling with people and dogs. So many dogs. It’s a beautiful Sunday. We order sandwiches from a food truck and find a picnic table on the patio of a café, next to a grassy park. There is a man water coloring at the table next to us. There is a mother following her toddler, her arms outstretched and ready for the inevitable catching that is bound to happen when the toddler picks up speed on the uneven earth. There is an elderly couple holding hands on the park bench. There is a student working on his laptop. There is live music, a man on guitar, a woman vocalist. They sing Bonnie Raitt and The Doobie Brothers.

I walk down to the pathway by the river. I stand before the mountains in the distance and just breathe. Listen. This is me in Oregon. This is what that feels like. This is me anywhere and this is me exactly right here, on this day.

After a few minutes, Mimi joins me.

We meander through the park. There are people on blankets, their heads tucked into books, or their eyes up on each other. There are trees: birch, pine, aspen and maple trees. There are so many trees it makes me miss living in Georgia, which is a funny feeling because I lived there for only a short time and I rarely miss it. There is a house for sale across the street. Mimi and I venture to the property, scan the listing and read about the details. We fantasize about owning this house and living in Bend.

This is how I travel.

I’ve had some of the best times of my life traveling with Boyd. I’ve had the most fun taking our children on trips to solidify their family bonds – time with their grandparents in Missouri and Louisiana, time with their godparents in San Francisco, time with their cousins in Colorado and Mississippi.

But the times I’ve spent alone, by the waters of the places I’ve been, these are the moments I meet myself anew. In the time I’ve spent by the San Francisco Bay, the Pacific Ocean, the Inn River, the Hudson River, the Chattoga River, the Long Island Sound, dinner overlooking Penobscot Bay, and mornings walking along the Arno River, riding boats through Bayou Lafourche and the days playing in the Gulf of America. The nameless rivers in Colorado that have brought me such peace and the creeks in Mississippi that have brought me back to nature. All of these minutes, hours, days – they add up to remembering that we don’t discover people and places just to know more about people and places – we discover people and places to know more about ourselves. Boyd can do this through adventure, the kids can do this through unusual tastes and inside jokes – I do this quietly by the river.

And when we finish our lunch and stroll through the town, I am complete – and I am changed. This is what happens when you let the waters of the world reveal the world in you.

Photo credit: Pixabay