Sometimes, writing comes easily — words flowing fast and violent like white water rapids, almost too quickly that they’re overwhelming. Then there are times that it’s a struggle — as if I have to coax them out from murky depths somewhere deep inside the recesses of my brain. Rarely is there an in-between. Either I’m overcome with words or I’m lost for words.

It’s the reality of riding the waves of inspiration followed by dry spells, burying myself in my journals whenever I feel the pull. Inevitably, I’m yanked away — even as I type, my youngest barreled through my bathroom door to announce that she “POOPED AND IT’S SO BIG YOU NEED TO COME SEE MOOOOM!”

A few ooo’s and ahhh’s and a flush later (yes, I washed my hands), and I’m seated on my favorite loud floral couch (Gertrude or Gertie, we call her) and I’m stuck again — the focus is gone and I’ve moved on to something else.

A little while later — after a round of mindless scrolling — Derek came in and suggested we drive to the lake, go fishing, and pack a picnic. “You should bring your camera, too,” he offered. I figured, why not? …I wasn’t accomplishing much, anyway.

Sandwiches packed, I loaded up the kids and headed down to the lake. The air was crisp but the evening sun was warm — early Autumn showing its first signs in the mountains.

The kids ran haphazardly across the grass, hopping over piles of elk droppings as if it were a game to avoid their messy leftovers — anyone that squashed into a pile was out. They left a trail of giggles in their wake as their feet met the wooden planks that create a walking path over the marsh. They thudded their way to the creek on the other side.

A little sand bar lines one edge of the creek and the kids were quick to abandon their shoes and dip their toes into the icy waters, shivering with delight and the sudden cold. Soon, they were knee-deep in the creek, fingers covered in mud and muck.

Harrison created a fish trap out of Duplo blocks and was trying his hand at luring fish into it with a slice of bread. Abbey busied herself making mud and sand castles with leaves as banners.

Molly worked the mud in her hands to create muddy little snowmen and quickly corrected me when I called them mudmen — “no, they are snowmen.” Okay, little one.

We tried our hand at fishing as the sun dipped below the mountains, the air cooling with it. The elk bugled in the distance across the lake. We watched folks walk their dogs, pedal their bikes, sit on benches — sharing the space together.

And somehow, I felt less jumbled and more focused — blurry vision cleared by the call of the elk and the mountain air. I think that’s what we all need more than anything else. In a world that celebrates constant busy-ness and accomplishment, we need moments to connect with the Earth, the water, the animals, and the people around us — feet bare and hands dirty. Find those moments, friends.