The Fate of Quiet: A Weekend in VT

This weekend we went to Wallingford, Vermont, a small town south of Rutland, the latter being where Nick grew up.

The house we stayed at in Wallingford abutted many acres of farmland and occasionally we would hear the rumbling moo of the brown and white bull who stood, swaying his tail, outside our window.

“His job is chief sire,” our host Fred said.

The spot was overwhelmingly quiet. There was not much to do but nap, watch the birds alight on the birdhouse and walk along the calm river that wended its way along the road we stayed at. This all suited me just fine, being seven and a half months pregnant, and feeling it.

When we weren’t watching the birds or making a dent in our grinders from Gill’s, we were walking. We walked the road along the river, we walked the White Rocks Recreation Trail. I pointed out the waterfalls and Nick mistook them for a leaky faucet; they were so small in his opinion.

Whaler kept locking his jaws on my walking stick, running away with it and then dropping it ten feet away.

It’s funny that you have to drive three hours sometimes for quiet. Work has become so noisy, or I’ve allowed it to become so noisy, it occurred to me that the weekend in Wallingford held the first moments of true quiet I’ve had in months.

As we stood at the vista by White Rocks, the valley below was still and quiet, the only sound that of the wind shushing through the treetops. Then, on a walk by the river, a chair that someone had left with a line slingshot, watching the eddies and looking for fish—there was quiet too.

I like quiet. I sit in my car and I turn the radio off, I sit at home and mostly keep the music off too, though I love music. When the baby comes, there will be lots of external noise I can’t switch off, or opt not to turn on. There will be many wails and cried, I’m told, anthems of a new life and new way of life, songs and howls of a new adventure. I’m aware that this chuff has the potential to rankle me at times.

In the book I’m reading, the author discusses one of my favorite philosophies by Viktor Frankl—the idea that in between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space lies our ability to choose our response. In that choice lies our freedom and our growth.

When life is easy, it’s easy to to find that space—to widen the gap between stimulus and response so as to choose carefully, choose wisely. I’m aware that this will be just as critical when baby arrives, from everything to how to respond when he or she is crying in the wee hours of the morning, to what to say in a fraught moment when Sleep has been out of reach for days. And so the fate of quiet in the external sense—well, that’s looking like something I might have said goodbye to for a bit. But the fate of quiet inside, the ability to choose and create that space and valley of peace, that has infinite potential to grow.

Re: belly & swell: Making the Call to Stop Surfing for Now

[written November 7, at 26 months pregnant]

Yesterday I made the call—hanging up my wetsuit until after the baby is born.

I’ve been slowly and begrudgingly approaching this day, really resisting it, but it was clear to me that it was time yesterday.

It was a gorgeous day at LS—2-3 feet, clean, relatively long periods, mid tide with an incoming tide right in the mid morning (when does that timing happen on a weekend?)

I rolled up to the beach with an open mind as was the custom I’d adopted over the last few months while surfing, my mantra being: If it’s doesn’t feel right, sit tight.

Three weeks had passed since I’d last been out and my belly had really popped. This time, I made sure to wear wet sox under my booties for easy on/off (I’d felt like I was going to have an aneurysm trying to get them off without wet sox before—so hard to reach and this growing bowling ball in my way). The wet sox were a game changer and I also just took my time getting the booties on. It was a warm 45 degrees, sun was shining and wind was low so I had the luxury of moving slowly.

There was a mess of seaweed on the beach and in the water, which I guessed had been kicked up by recent rain and storms. I walked through the seaweed as far as I could before hopping on my board. On the board, I did inchworm move—butt up in the air to accommodate the bump. Paddling was a lot harder—it was tough to find my balance and hard to not feeling like I wasn’t smushing El Bumpo. Three weeks out of the water hadn’t done much for my arms either, which felt like noodles quickly. I paddled out and settled in.

Surfing pregnant has definitely made me more selective. I won’t paddle for anything like I normally would and just getting out. there is a feat in and of itself, so I don’t mind waiting for the right wave to roll through. There was a lot of futile paddling on this day—finding the right spot on my board was proving an interesting challenge—but I finally managed to score a nice right. My balance was off but it felt so good to paddle and pop up. It’s the best feeling in the world and one I never take for granted.

While I caught some awesome waves during the session, the day felt different. Surfing is my happy place, but today I was stressed and worried about falling or hitting my board or getting hit by those around me. I’d finally arrived at the point I knew would come where my valid worries outweighed the fun factor. My (temporarily) final wave was perfect. I rode it nearly to shore, a beautiful right that allowed some fun breezy turns.

At 14 weeks to go before bebe comes, I got to surf through my first and second trimesters safely and for that, I’m super grateful. It’s definitely a tough moment for me, to pause until bebe comes, and then to anticipate more time for recovering, but I’m feeling confident in the choice and committed to what feels right to me in terms of fun and safety in my life right now. I’m committed to doing everything I can to both usher this baby in safely, keep myself safe and get back in the water as quickly as possible.