Finding Mindfulness With a Paddle in My Hands
Each stroke takes me further from the launch as I navigate the shallows, gliding across sandbars that whoosh against the underside of my kayak. It’s a calm day and the wind turbines on Georgia Mountain turn lazily in the midday sun.
For the first forty-five minutes I curve past fishermen and between banks of reeds where red-winged blackbirds trill. I thread through dead submerged trees, remnants from when the river was dammed or from the crazy flooding of 2023. Despite the full parking lot, between the size of the lake and the height of the reeds, I rarely see anyone. I watch the birds and look for turtles.
The next section of the lake is more open and I cut through the center toward the channel leading to the dam. In another life I must have been a water creature. I’m more nimble in a 8.5 foot kayak than I am on my feet and with the water keeping me cool, I tolerate heat, sun, and constant effort like I never can on land.
I paddle past empty docks. A single lawn chair rests at an angle at the bottom of a backyard.
My shoulders and arms are growing sore so I change my stroke. “Push,” I coach myself, making my top arm push the paddle forward while my bottom arm provides steadiness and direction.
It’s hard. I want to pull.
“Push.”
With effort, I change my stroke from 99% pulling to about 40% pulling and 60% pushing. Different muscles are engaged and the flames in my shoulders subside. There.
The wide channel is calm and I watch a heron fly overhead, belly low and feet trailing. It drops into a patch of reeds on the far shore ands stands motionless.
My shoulders flare with pain again. Oh damn, I went back to pulling.
“Push.”
This time I count. Push-two-three, push-two-three, push-two-three. This makes my pace uneven, kayak lurching forward on each push. Ok, breathe. Even it out. I lengthen each push, imagining the motion of my legs on a bicycle.
I keep this smoothness for a couple of minutes before I let my thoughts wander and my stroke find a balance. There’s a beaver lodge ahead on the left, but they won’t be out in the blazing sun. Small birds dart among the trees. A splash draws my attention but I miss the source, only catching the ring of spreading ripples. Distant traffic noise comes through the trees but the sounds nearby are only paddling and birdsong.
It’s a half mile further before I realize that I’m having imaginary conversations with co-workers in my head, debating a project that has grown contentious. Time to center myself again.
Now I focus on my back, using my core and back muscles to stabilize and power each stroke. The pain in my arms lifts immediately and my kayak shoots ahead. Ooh! Speed. There’s an idea.
I start digging each blade of my paddle deeper, careful not to raise either arm above shoulder level. A torn rotator cuff caused me problems for years so I obey my physical therapist’s directives. Twist, plunge, pull, twist, plunge, pull. I sprint forward with delicious speed and strength despite the wide stable form of my recreational kayak and the wide stable form of my own body.
A minute later I pull my paddle from the water and drift, the kayak continuing forward then slowly turning around as current and wind overpower my fading momentum.
I take off my baseball cap and dunk it into the lake, return it to my head, pull my ponytail through, and shiver as the cold water runs down my back. My eyes close for a moment. This is pleasure. The heat and ache of my muscles offset by the chill of the lake, the lack of any expectations except that I will return to the launch.
By the time I loop back to the start and spot my husband in his fishing kayak, I’ve covered almost seven miles and I’m tired, thirsty, and peaceful.
