Ask my siblings, about the mornings specifically. On our annual beach vacation, when we’d rise early in search of sand dollars, across the creek which separated the near sand in front of our lodging from the far, flat wet bank lapped by disappearing ocean waves as the tide went out. I hated wading across it. At the narrow, it was maybe fifteen feet of—to my tender calves—pure ice. While the rest of them plunged gamely in, I hesitated, groaned, squealed in demonstrative pain. I have always hated cold water.

Which is to say, my new-found summer hobby as a 40-something is an immense achievement. Not polar plunge, exactly, though reading Katherine May’s account in Wintering made me want—or at least imagine wanting—to try. But cold water swimming, again and again..

In the Columbia River at Doug’s beach, easy water, if I’m honest, almost warmish, wading out in water waist high for a hundred feet, bobbing on floaties pushed back to shore by the wind.

At a swimming hole hidden in a hollow, half mile up from a small trail north of where the White Salmon meets the Columbia, scrambling over mossy boulders, shivering as I duck down to my waist, indulging in a proud squeal, the first one in, even if I’m not brave enough to go down to the shoulders.

I can’t quite bear to go to my shoulders in the waterfall-crowned swimming hole at the zenith of longer hike with my college best friend, but this water was truly, pristinely, cold, and we’re the only hikers who strip and sink in to water covered legs, let it lap our shivering bellies, testing how long we can stand the chill of mountain runoff.

And all the way underwater in one swimming hole, one my husband and I had to ourselves, midway up a desert plateau, where a river cracked a green canyon among the steep golden hills. All the way in two Montana rivers, each noticeably warmer than the mountain streams in Washington and Oregon.

During Covid, with DC’s typical summer jungle refusing to hold off just because the public pools were closed, our family developed a love of swimming in natural bodies of water, seeking out swimmable rivers and lakes in our vicinity. Later, when travel resumed, we kept finding them. This region along the Columbia River is a favorite, full of swimming holes, creeks, and of course the main river—one I grew up just a few miles from but never considered jumping in til I was north of 40.

Now, we measure our summer by the places we swim. I am like my siblings decades ago, gamely jumping in, even if still squealing, relishing the way my skin tingles in the aftermath of the cold, my whole body awake. It isn’t that the water is warmer than it was in my childhood (though—scary—it may be!). It isn’t that I’ve grown fond of the cold. But as I’ve matured I have come to know, through lived experience, that the pain of being cold fades, and the joy I receive in exchange for being willing to be cold is better than not being cold.

This summer, during our annual west coast pilgrimage to extended family, we east coast exiles swam in at least 3 rivers, 3 swimming holes, the ocean and my mom’s pool. I watched my children, giggling with delight, run madly into the water, hold my hands and count to three for the “full Columbia,” go all the way in.

We hiked in forest, desert, mountain, drove across four states, reconnected with best friends of various stages of life, visited countless extended family spanning four generations, ate boatloads of farm peaches and homegrown tomatoes, celebrated all the summer birthdays—8, if I count correctly. I performed a heroic rescue of a hiking pole dropped from a bridge.

Just before departing my aunt’s home, we spotted the long-sought fox cross the field outside. We found a bat fallen from a tree, put it back with a stick, held vigil with it as it clung to the bark, slowly climbing higher before dying in the night. We saw large fish huddle at the streambed base of an old piling. Three grizzlies with binoculars, then three brown bears munching in the meadow just feet from our car, their curious faces gazing briefly at the vehicle before returning to feed. Salmon jumping a waterfall. (I’ll share a video on Instagram!)

I retraced the route I once ran with a friend when my dad was in the hospital for the last time, just before he went into hospice. I remember gasping for breath as sobs overpowered my body, just as we rounded the orchard bend and followed the trees along the winery, the physical force of grief slamming me to a stop in their shade, my friend holding vigil beside me as I cried, finishing the run to the hospital to see him. This time I ran alone, the longest I had since having kids, I think—I’ve been rebuilding distance slowly for the last few months—recalling those sobs, feeling that decade+ weight in my chest again, finishing not at the hospital but his grave. He would have loved this summer, the play he would have lead us into with gusto, the giggling grandkids he would have been swimming right beside, the feasts and wine.

For a month, I produce nothing of note. Crank out the minimum required to steward what’s in my care. Host nothing, lead nothing, write little, utterly fail to market myself. It is not the time for it. Our west coast pilgrimage is a time to rest and play, and I did.

My summer month of play often feels indulgent, wasteful. A devil-voice, lodged not on my shoulder, but deeper in my soul like a buried splinter, whispers that for sure I’ll never amount to anything if this is how I fritter away my days. Will I make it as a writer if I keep pausing to jump in swimming holes, feel the cold wash over my head, gasp for air, explode with laughter? I mean, it is certainly possible the answer is no. As with any ambition, factually, it may be the case that achievement demands profound sacrifice, that the prize cannot be won without forsaking things you actually value more. Haven’t you seen The Devil Wears Prada? I have long navigated this in my non-writing professional career. Where I landed: I’ll take swimming holes over a Senate appointment. Hypothetically, that is. Not like I’ve been offered one.

To be clear, not because a swimming hole is better, but because of the temptation to pursue Senate-appointment-shaped greatness as if that is what ultimately satisfies. But what what I already have is enough? I believe it as a theoretical matter, the world is full of sparks of beauty, goodness, joy, oh, I’ll just say it—GOD!—earth indeed crammed with heaven, which can and do suffice. Maybe there’s a parallel—or maybe I’m just reaching for it, because it’s where I started: just as focusing on the pain of the cold kept me from missing something better than not being cold, we can be so enamored by a prize that doesn’t deliver what we long for, whittle down our life to clawing for it, that we miss what does deliver in pursuit. So much of my writing is recounting my success, not in achieving a goal, but moving from the theoretical to the experiential. Jumping in the swimming hole.

Of course now that I’m pursuing a ‘prize’ in a new arena, seeking to share that writing more widely, I face the same internal dilemma, all over again. It’s like a demonstration project for my thesis. How exciting! The only way through feels like a paradox I can imagine a desert father offering a novice, the inverse of realizing that being willing to be cold opens you to something better than not being cold: eventually being published will not bring you joy unless you cease to think being published is what brings joy.

The tension—oh helpful word! implying as it does, as opposed to problem, that it isn’t eradicated, solved, bundled up neatly for the garbage collectors, but managed, daily, like the aching hip of an old dame who has lived—is to work toward a goal—for me, publishing my debut work—as faithful stewardship, not an ultimate prize, not letting the pursuit prevent us from removing our shoes to see God in the bushes.

How, though? One likely critical thing is to become and remain free, deeply rooted in something that is not self-referential. And those deep roots grow when we—you guessed it—play, rest. I just heard writer and spiritual director Charlotte Donlon (whose upcoming work on Spiritual Direction for Writers I’m stoked to read!) define a retreat as “Ignoring everyone and everything else and giving my body, mind and spirit what it needs.” My west coast time, while it makes some kinds of demands on me, functions as a sort of professional retreat, giving my body, mind and spirit an infusion of joy, toning the muscles that might help me seek joy year-round. No promise that this interruption of my routine results in conventional success, but it does reorient what success means, while providing ample evidence of enough available irrespective of achieving that success.

But summer is not how I’m meant to live always. It is beautiful, and helpful, as part of a rhythm, a counterweight to my usual, still heaven-crammed life. This week we flew home, from mountain lakes to laptop, returning not only to work, but the rhythms and disciplines that sustain me. I set alarms, made a meal plan, bought groceries, resumed writing each morning. Soon I’ll even open Instagram. It’s not as dopamine-hit fun, but I can affirm it afresh as good. One other bonus of time away: I return to work with renewed gratitude for my ordinary life, whether or not my stories about it ever come to a bookstore near you.