I heard them before I saw them.
“Hey guys, you wanna go this way?”
“Whoa! Cool!”
I glanced up from adjusting the settings on my camera and watched a gaggle of children accompanied by adults emerge single-file from the woods and march onto the frozen lake. I sighed, slightly miffed at the interruption. This is not your private photo-making studio, I had to remind myself. This is a regional park. Other people get to be here, too!
The group didn’t see me, their sights set on the expanse of ice glistening before them. Shouts and squeals reverberated through the crystalline air as I begrudgingly switched off my camera and folded up my tripod, my bitterness swiftly dissipating upon seeing a little one gloriously wipe out. (“Ouch, bud! You okay?”) Feeling a touch bad, I turned, slinging my tote bag over my shoulder, tripod in hand, and headed back to the snow-packed shore.
I didn’t get far. Wanting to enjoy the nice weather a little longer, I plopped down on the gnarled trunk of a fallen tree. Using my arm as a shield against the blazing sun, I gazed across the horizon. I thought of how, in a few months, all the ice will be melted and the dead reeds reborn and new shoots sprouted. Beavers and muskrats will no longer hunker like boulders on the hardened surface of the lake but effortlessly sail through it. Above, eagles will swoop from their nests, eyeing the water for flashes of movement, while below, herons wade through the shallows where small-boned fishes and insects gang.
It’s hard not to dream of summer while encased in the seemingly impenetrable cocoon of winter, but there is something to be said for the slow-as-molasses months where a single tepid day feels like someone placing a lemon drop in the palm of your hand.
Resting on the tree, sunshine on my face, I closed my eyes and soaked in the warmth. When I opened them again, the band of children and their wranglers had fanned across the lake. Like a party of minnows, they seemed to change direction constantly, light bouncing off their collective and, at times, chaotic movement. Despite their caretakers’ warnings, kids willingly slipped and slid all over the place, sending joyful shrieks into the wind.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my Olympus XA. Before the troop’s arrival, I’d been busy making self-portraits with my Instax camera—a practice I’ve been doing on and off since 2021—and hadn’t yet employed my 35mm. I knew I had a few shots left and wanted to shoot them before the end of the day.
Without thinking about it too much, I started snapping. While I rarely make pictures with people in them, save for myself or Will, watching the kiddos with their entourage felt like the perfect opportunity to (pick your pun) A) test those waters, B) give it a shot.
I sped through several pictures, and in the end, the best shot was the last one I made. It reminds me of a Grandma Moses painting, where each person is tiny yet vibrant, engaged in some unique activity.
A few days after my encounter with the brigade on the ice, I packed my suitcase and went on vacation to Florida. There, the ocean scintillated as it lapped in a ceaseless rhythm against the foamy beach. Sunlight gleamed. Like the lizards basking on the white shells outside our rented cottage, I relished in the near-constant heat and humidity. For the first time in months, my muscles relaxed, my spine straightened, and all the rigid parts of my psyche softened.
I felt at ease.
“Maybe we should move here!” I half-joked to Will, flip-flopping down the street, towel wrapped around my damp, swimsuit-clad waist.
We could live in a cottage, one of the historic-looking ones on the north end of the island. I could get a job working in a cafe and write and make pictures. I could run on the beach! Or maybe we could start our own cafe—a vegan one. Or an art gallery. Or an antique store. Maybe all three! Or maybe…
My imagination was off and running. The warmth had powered me like a solar panel. I felt almost feverish with the reverie of what my life could be like. No more -10 °F mornings! No more inane shoveling! No more numb fingers while adjusting the settings on my camera! No more ice—except in drinks!
A quick Zillow search dashed my dreams of living anywhere near Anna Maria Island. $3200/month? For a teeny 2-bedroom apartment?! Unless the psychic who told my mother I’d make a fortune writing is, in fact, psychic, the chances of me living out my coastal fantasies are slim. Not impossible (after all, it’s good to keep a strand of hope alive), but not firmly rooted in the realm of possibility either.
This sudden unraveling of a dream I hadn’t even remotely considered before our trip had me questioning everything. Do I really want to live in freezing-ass Minnesota for the rest of my life? Is this really the best place for us? Three years ago, Will and I hashed out why moving from Oregon to Minnesota felt like a good idea, and so far, our instincts have proven to be sound. But what if we were wrong? What if something better is out there waiting for us?
Leaving Florida, I felt bereft of a life I never knew I wanted: one of salty air, free trolley rides, and almost oppressive humidity; coffee on the beach in the morning; and annoying amounts of sunscreen. Every aspect of it sang to me like a siren lounging on a big rock.
Just go, a voice inside me urged as we taxied across the tarmac, about to return to the tundra. Convince Will to sell all of your combined possessions. Leave your coats, boots, and shovels behind. Take only what you need. Make it work! LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO BE COLD SIX MONTHS OUT OF THE YEAR!
But you LIKE the cold, another voice chimed in. You LIKE watching the seasons change and everything die and get reborn. It reminds you of the ephemeral beauty of existence and the cyclical nature of all things. You LIKE staying indoors AND shoveling snow AND being a little uncomfortable at times! It makes you feel like LAURA INGALLS WILDER.
You could be the Florida version of Laura Ingalls Wilder, the first voice suggested, and live in a historic cottage near the seaside. Write books. Bake pies. You know the ocean is cyclical, too, right?
Or maybe, I said to both voices, I should calm down for a second and BREATHE.
It’s funny to think about moving to a new locale when I finally feel grounded for the first time in my adult life. Where I once felt unmoored, I feel settled in where I am and who I am. The water below my feet has crystallized into something firm I can stand on. Maybe it won’t always be this way (such is the underlying nature of the universe), or I’ll lose my balance and slip and fall. But for now, I’m in a solid state, one I feel I can grow and create from. Why change that?
The truth is, I don’t want to change anything. I’m content with where I’m at. It’s one thing to daydream about moving to a new place, especially when chronic wanderlust is involved, and the weather feels as if a child (a mean one) has gotten hold of a snow globe and won’t stop shaking it. And having had the privilege of living in many different places over the years, as well as seeing how other people live, I know that even having the choice of where and how to live (or travel) is a blessing in itself.
For now, my life is here in the Midwest. It took me over a decade to circle back to the place I came from, but I have done just that. My roots are here. My home. My people. Sure, the winters are long, and spring is a downright tease. But summer and fall? Better than Florida in late February. 𓇢𓆸