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When life chooses your rhythm
There are some weeks when life unfolds exactly as you expect.
This wasn't one of them.
For several days this week, our five-year-old grandson came to stay again whilst his mum and dad enjoyed a well-earned break together. Like many grandparents, we have the privilege of seeing a different side of family life. We can set everything else aside and devote our time entirely to him, from the moment he wakes until the moment he falls asleep.
Of course, life according to a five-year-old doesn't always follow the plans of the adults.
"Shall we go for a walk to the woods?"
"No".
"What about a ride on your scooter?"
"No...I want to play with the kitchen and café in the garden".
And so we did.
The garden became a bustling café with rainbow coffee (aka water from the outside tap) served by our budding barista, ice cream parlour, kitchen and barbecue, all within the space of a few hours.
Lego creations appeared and then disappeared. Stories and imaginative roleplays unfolded. Games changed direction without warning. Every carefully considered plan lasted only until a new idea arrived.
It made me smile, but it also reminded me how different life is for parents. For us, four days of complete attention is a joy (mostly). For busy parents, real life still carries on around it. There’s work, jobs to do, meals to cook, washing to fold and countless other responsibilities competing for attention. Sometimes children have to wait. Sometimes the answer has to be "not now".
Our grandson isn't very keen on that answer.
Perhaps the biggest lesson for me was learning, once again, what it feels like to surrender my own agenda. As coaches, we often talk about letting go of control, but life has a habit of giving us opportunities to practise it. This week, the lesson came from a determined little boy with very firm ideas about how the day should unfold.
When he returned home, we were looking forward to reclaiming our usual rhythm with a walk. The riverbank cows had other ideas as they made an urgent march towards the remaining pond, eager to cool their feet and quench their thirst whilst also blocking our path, so our walk was shorter than we’d have liked.
Despite the heat, there are still signs that summer is moving on. The blackberries along the lane are beginning to ripen, their deep purple fruit promising that autumn isn't quite as far away as it seems. Even during the stillness of these hot days, the seasons continue their gentle work.
In the days that followed, the heat was another barrier to my favoured outdoor routine. It has been relentless, and like many women navigating perimenopause, my body seems to have forgotten how to regulate its own temperature.
Like the cows (and me it seems!), the countryside is also parched. The last pond is not far from drying up. Apart from the occasional gull dipping low over the river and pausing for a quick cool in the water, the familiar activity along the riverbank has hit a lull.
For much of the week I've been indoors, venturing out only briefly during the coolest parts of the day.
The absence of nature feels like a physical ache. I rely heavily on time outdoors to recalibrate and reset my balance. When it’s not there, it’s like a part of me is missing.
I’ve found myself longing for the cool shade beneath conifers, the quiet of the forest floor and that familiar sense of perspective that always seems to arrive somewhere between the trees. It's a strange thing to miss somewhere so deeply, but perhaps we only fully appreciate what restores us when it's temporarily taken away.
Nature, though, has a wonderful way of meeting us where we are.
Whilst I've been longing to escape to the forest, I discovered a tiny piece of it growing quietly beside me. A cluster of fungi had emerged in one of my office plants, the white threads of mycelium spreading through the compost below. It made me stop and smile. Even when I couldn't get to the woodland, a small reminder of its hidden life had somehow found me.
The garden birds have been visiting the regularly replenished water tray constantly, splashing enthusiastically before perching nearby with wings spread wide to dry. Butterflies have drifted through the borders in surprising numbers.
Our resident hedgehog has remained faithful to his nightly visits, appearing on the wildlife camera as reliably as ever, usually having a scratch or two as it scuttles by. Even our grandson became fascinated by the pigeons noisily swooping into the garden.
Life hadn't stopped.
It had simply come a little closer to home.
On the walk we managed to get our grandson to venture out on, the grasses along the lane seemed alive with the sound of crickets. We stopped more than once, listening carefully as he tried to work out where the chirping was coming from. Eventually, after a little patient searching, we managed to spot one hidden amongst the grasses (it was actually a lesser marsh grasshopper).
It was one of those tiny moments that reminded me how much wonder there is in simply noticing.
As if there wasn't already enough to think about, a house appeared online this week.
Not just any house, but one tucked away amongst the forests of Scotland; exactly the sort of place that instantly captures my imagination. Within moments, I'd mentally moved in and arranged the furniture, imagined forest walks from the front door and begun dreaming of a different life.
Reality, of course, is rather more complicated.
Our own house isn't for sale. My son would probably never forgive us for moving so far away, my other son would need to follow. After twelve years apart, I've only recently found my way back to my brother and his family, and tomorrow we're spending the day together with my nephews; something I never dared to dream would happen. We have more family visits over the coming weekends, including our granddaughter.
In a short space of time, life has gone from feeling remarkably quiet to wonderfully, if slightly overwhelmingly, full.
Alongside family, I’ve had exciting thoughts about the future of my coaching business. Nothing is certain yet, but sometimes a single conversation opens your mind to possibilities that hadn't previously existed. It feels far too early to know where my cogitations might lead, but they're quietly percolating all the same.
Looking back over the week, I realise that very little happened as I'd planned.
The days followed someone else's timetable. The weather dictated where I could go. Unexpected opportunities appeared. Long-held dreams quietly resurfaced. Old relationships continued to heal.
Perhaps that's the lesson I've been sitting with.
We often imagine that growth comes from carefully pursuing our plans, yet sometimes the richest weeks are the ones where life asks us to put our plans aside and follow a different rhythm instead.
This week reminded me how deeply I need nature to feel restored. It reminded me not to take family time for granted, especially after years when it felt impossible. It reminded me that new opportunities often begin with a single conversation, and that dreams have an uncanny habit of appearing just when we least expect them.
Sometimes we choose the path ahead.
Sometimes life chooses it for us.
The invitation, perhaps, is simply to notice where it is leading...
And perhaps to ask yourself... "what has this week quietly revealed about what matters most to you?"
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