A Little Distance

Sep 11

4 min read

I haven't packed a single thing.

Normally, by this point, I'd have a list. I'd have piles. I'd probably have already thought through what I was wearing each day and checked the weather more times than necessary.

Instead, I've spent most of this week sick.

There was a point when I wasn't sure I was going to be able to go at all. Thankfully, I'm no longer contagious, but I'm also not quite back to 100%. I'm tired. There are things around here that need to be done. And there is a suitcase somewhere in this house that is still completely empty.

But I really want to go.

Actually, I think I need to go.

Not because this trip holds some magical solution to anything I'm carrying. And not because a few days away will somehow fix what has felt heavy lately. I think I just need a little distance.

There are seasons when life feels heavier than others. Sometimes we can easily identify why. There is a crisis, a loss, a deadline, a difficult decision, something we can point to and say, That's the thing.

Other times, it's an accumulation.

One thing settles on top of another. Completing a big project. Joining a new group and figuring out where we fit in and how I can contribute. There are always responsibilities that need our attention. Someone we love who needs something from us. A realization we're still processing. The everyday things that don't stop simply because our emotional capacity is running low.

Nothing necessarily requires us to drop everything. So we don't.

We keep moving through our days. We answer the emails, make the appointments, buy the groceries, finish the project, feed the chickens, take care of the people and things that depend on us.

And sometimes we don't realize just how much we're carrying until we're given the opportunity to put some of it down, or find someone else to hold it, do it, or decide it in my place. I think that's where I am.

When I started feeling sick, one of my first thoughts was, What if I can't go?

Of course, part of that was disappointment. I've been looking forward to spending a few days away with my friend. But there was something else underneath it. I felt almost desperate to go, desperate to get away and breathe.

That caught my attention. Not desperate to escape my life. I actually think that's an important distinction.

I don't want a different life. I just need to step outside the rhythm of this one for a minute.

Our regular environments constantly remind us of what needs our attention. I can walk from one room to another and collect a mental list without intentionally looking for anything to do.

The laundry.

The email I need to answer.

The gardening.

The project sitting on my desk.

The thing I need to pick up for someone.

The phone call I haven't made.

And can we talk about the dust!

None of those things are necessarily overwhelming on their own. But they can all be little taps on the shoulder all day long reminding us, Don't forget about me.

And then there are the things we carry that no one else can see. Those come with us from room to room too. Maybe that's part of what getting away gives us. Not an escape exactly but an interruption.

For a few days, I'll wake up somewhere that doesn't immediately hand me my usual list of responsibilities. I'll see different things when I look out the window. My days won't follow their usual rhythm. There will be space between me and some of the things that have had my attention.

And sometimes a little space changes what we can see.

I also recognize the privilege in saying, I'm going away for a few days. Not everyone can and I haven’t always been able to go either. There are financial realities, jobs, caregiving responsibilities, health concerns, children, schedules and a hundred other reasons why packing a suitcase and leaving for a few days simply isn't possible for many women.

But I don't think every reset requires a suitcase. Maybe what we need sometimes isn't actually a vacation. Maybe we need an interruption. An afternoon somewhere we don't normally go. A long walk without turning it into exercise. Sitting beside the water. Wandering through a bookstore. Taking ourselves to lunch. Turning off the phone. Spending a few hours somewhere that doesn't immediately remind us of everything waiting for our attention.

Distance can be measured in miles. But it doesn't have to be. Sometimes the reset is simply choosing, for a little while, to stop responding to every tap on the shoulder.

In a little while, I'll pull out the suitcase. I'll probably pack too much. I'll make sure everything here is handled before I leave because, apparently, even my reset requires a to-do list.

And then I'm going to go.

I'm not expecting to come home with world peace figured out. I'm not expecting a few days away to change much but it may help with my perspective. Maybe expecting magic is asking too much of a reset anyway. Maybe the point isn't to come back different. Maybe it's simply to give ourselves enough room to exhale.

To put down what we've been carrying, even temporarily.

To notice what we miss, and maybe what we don't.

To hear our own thoughts without quite so much noise around them.

And perhaps, when we pick everything back up, we'll hold some of it a little differently. Better yet, maybe we’ll see that we don’t need to pick it all back up again. Maybe the time away provides clarity on what’s mine and what’s not.

Sometimes we just need a little distance.

Much love,