Sun Days on Orcas | What you can’t get back

I know I have to let go of blackberry season when mid-September rolls around. It won’t last no matter how much I wish it would. I move on to picking the last plums and making pear cobblers thanks to the help of strong winds.

Thankfully, there are so many aspects of life that we get to repeat here each season – lake-bobbing in the heat of summer; pie-baking in the cool of fall; fireplace-cozying in the cold of winter; and marveling at seedlings in the fresh, green spring.

When we moved to Orcas Island, our kids were two and six. Everything was magical. We’d all walk down to Eastsound Beach and play with driftwood sticks until the sun set. We’d fashion rafts on overcast mornings and try them out on sunny afternoons. We’d inspect minute life in grassy fields and walk through twinkling-light Christmas markets drinking hot apple cider.

We had routines that felt special every time, rocking our younger one to sleep for his nap, and cuddling on the couch to read stacks of books fresh from the library.

We planted seeds in the garden. We snapped beans and molded bread dough at dinnertime. We scooped the middles out of acorn squashes and ate the roasted seeds while simmering the soup.

We hiked mountain trails, carved stone arrowheads on slate beaches, and frequented a local cove like it was our backyard. We found a dock that floated astray and called it ours for a day; found tiny forest animals that we nursed back to health; kayaked around islands as our younger boy’s tiny fingers trailed through the salty water that he happily licked off of his fingers.

The land, lakes, ponds, and sea made a magical backdrop for the fairytale childhood that we protectively and creatively oversaw for our little ones, the four of us moving as a unit from one beautiful moment to the next. No opportunity was taken for granted; we made the most of every drop of life.

Days were endless, every minute used for teaching, guiding, and exploring. Nights were greeted with gratitude for the welcome state of rest.

The years crept by. Pants were outgrown, and revolving bags bound for Sequel filled with clothes by the front door.

The little ones grew. They are no longer little.

I think about all of the silent lasts that slipped by unnoticed – the last time I picked up our firstborn and danced with him on my hip through the living room while rain hit the windows outside; the last time I rocked our younger one to sleep in between beach jaunts; the last time we all played with driftwood and rocks at the water’s edge from noon to night. Had I known that each time was our last, I would have cried.

You know when blackberries are going to ripen on the sun-warmed bush and when the cool air will signal a change in their cycle. You have a pretty good idea which pear cobbler will be your last until next year.

But childhood goes by one silent last after another, unbeknownst to you until you’re sitting in a quiet room.