Adaptability

I've come to find that much of life advancement is about adaptability. Each of us does it in pursuit of the next mountaintop. It's a positive trait, to change and better oneself to conquer society through education or the workforce. I've found much happiness constantly adapting the last five or more years. Yet I've begun to think on adaptability too, how easy the act can be in diminishing what once mattered and was important before the adaptation began. Particularly what happened to those interests and skills that were once naturally there, before the mountain ranges were placed and advancing towards them became the goal.

I recently began to uncover those. I love my chosen career and current job, yet I've begun to crave those natural and fitting interests. I joined the cast of a musical and a local choral society. I began painting and drawing again and researched local dance classes. I set goals in my writing, realizing that the poetry and short stories I wrote vigorously only a couple of years ago -- even this blog, began to fade into the background as the next mountaintop was scaled. When focusing on the goal, there's no time or reason to think of these interests. They were put aside without question for adaptability. And then one day, I wanted them back.

Now, looking clearly at both, I know they can be co-managed and co-loved. Mountaintops by weekday, creativity by weeknight and weekend. Sounds a lot like a work-life balance.

Navy Skies

Most of my recent residences have been rural places where the stars and sky are bright. Yet I think my current home in Holderness, New Hampshire might be where I see the stars and moon brighter than anywhere else.

sunrise, Holderness, New Hampshire 

I remember at 13, learning about distant galaxies in earth science class and standing outside my home in Concord, New Hampshire on spring nights, staring at the sky in fascination as I found each galaxy. Yet the strongest natural memories existing today of that home in Concord are of the deep woods, surrounding wildlife, bitter winters and humid summers spent outdoors in the garden.

Concord, New Hampshire

When I lived on the east coast of Scotland, in a tiny university and fishing town, I walked at night (particularly in December when night far outnumbered day) through an open field to my residence. I remember gazing at the stars and night sky from that field, the new, unfamiliar tilt of the constellations I remembered seeing in the American northeast. Yet it was the sea air and early spring flowers I remember, not the night sky.

East Coast of Scotland

In northern Vermont, the stars were bright, particularly in the most rural of areas, but it was the crisp and clean air quality, especially in fall, that I remember best.

Northern Vermont

I live alone and am out in the evening most nights. Occasionally I leave a porch light on, but when I don't, the dark walk between car and house is startling. It's dark and quiet and I don't like it much until I feel safe enough to realize that I know this place and these surroundings. It's then that I look upwards. Nearly every time, the stars are brighter than anything I can remember. But I've noticed too, that the sky is never quite black, no matter how late into the night. It's always a shade of navy. I've tried to figure this out, why it doesn't appear to be the dark sky that I remember or imagine it to be, it's always a little lighter, a little more beautiful and colorful with more stars shining through than I thought possible.