A ride

Today I took a canoe ride while the rest of the house woke up and got breakfast going.  It was a a lesson in going slow.  It was a time to reflect, be quiet, and let go of tension.
I had to keep my canoe pointed in the direction I wanted to go; it liked to veer off-course with the slight breeze, but the course correction only involved a small stroke or two.  It was a metaphor for staying on my path.  The need to check-in and make small adjustments when things move a bit off of the path I'm taking.
I saw a juvenile eagle sitting on a beach chair and the canoe did an about-face as I took a picture.  I let it.  I knew I could turn back when I was ready.
I looked down into the deep water and saw the lilypad's twisty stems disappearing into the dark.  Their flowers resting on the surface in all different stages of opening.
I watched a mature eagle circle, drop, and circle again until it was able to reach down and come up with a nice breakfast.  I listened to a loon call and watched as it spread it's wings before it settled back onto the peaceful lake.
I watched a middle-aged couple take a morning swim, dry off, and sit in their wet swimsuits to enjoy the quiet peace of their dock.
I paddled past diving rafts, boats, jet skis, tubes, and kayaks.  I thought of the busyness of the lake in the afternoons and the simplicity of the mornings and evenings.  I heard the noise of cars on the nearby road and the sounds of birds moving around the trees.  A paradox, yet somehow there is a kind of rhythm that makes it possible for so many creatures to enjoy the lake.
A boat sped by and I knew the waves would come, so I put down my oar.  I let them come, slow and steady at first, then bigger and more intense, and finally quick and rocky.  I watched them move across the lake in front of me and felt them move the canoe.  There was some fear in knowing I was going to be moved and I didn't know quite how much-I let it happen.  The canoe rode the waves and I did too.
By the next boat, I decided to continue my journey even with the waves and movement.  This minor interruption didn't need to stop me.

I thought of my path and life.  How I can face bumps, reflect or watch them, learn from them, and then move on with greater knowledge and new skills.
The daily pull to spend my energy in too many places, say yes to everything, spread myself thin, keeps me from taking these quiet times, but these quiet times are what offer me the peace, centeredness and the perspective to move ahead without fear.  Anne Morrow Lindbergh says in Gift from the Sea that we have the choice of simplicity vs. multiplicity.  We easily get spread too thin, "stretched out like a spider's web to each breeze that blows, to each call that comes."  She says the problem lies in "how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life, how to remain balanced, no matter what centrifugal forces tend to pull one off center; how to remain strong what shocks come in at the periphery and tend to crack the hub of the wheel."  What is the answer?
For me the key to keeping the hub of the wheel strong is quiet and time alone.  My ride on the canoe confirmed what I already knew.  This is essential to my well-being.  It refills my cup, keeps me centered, and reminds me that simplicity is the route that leads to my happiness.

Are you able to find a few moments to be quiet with yourself?  

Do you ever long for more simplicity?  What could you say NO to that would lead to this goal?