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Last Friday, my husband, daughter, and I visited Blueberry Blossom Farm for 90 minutes of berry picking. 31 pounds worth. Within minutes of arriving, my phone screen blanked out making it impossible to record and identify birdsongs on Merlin. Mildly irritated, I chose to tuck it away with an “Oh well,” focusing instead on the conversations around me.

Kids played Marco Polo when they grew tired of picking. A boy showed his mom a blueberry the size of a cherry. My husband and daughter called to me to let me know where the ripest berries were. Unplugged, I simply listened to the cedar waxwings and eagles without trying to capture or record them.

Before the berries went into the freezer, my daughter and I spent a half hour per flat sorting. Leaves. Stems. Tiny insects. Squished or bruised berries. Not because they were bad, but because they weren’t the part we wanted to keep. We were making room for what matters most: the delicious, edible fruit.

A Pattern Emerges

This weekend, I went outside to clip bamboo stalks, pull ivy, and annihilate blackberry bushes threatening to destroy our wood siding. My husband came out to see how I was doing and removed a plant that grows back every summer, no matter how much I trim it back.

To see the electrical box and heat pump devoid of greenery – what didn’t belong – made my heart sing and my body breathe more easily. Not because ivy is bad, but because we want to preserve our siding while promoting easy access to the electrical box. Progress.

The Trail

Yesterday, on a Mountaineers hike to Mason, Rainbow, and Island Lakes, part of me yearned for Tuesdays without weekend crowds. And yet, as soon as we got off the beaten path and left Mason Lake behind, we found solitude. We were able to escape the masses. Not because crowds are bad – everyone deserves a way to unwind – but because my preference is for solitude.

At Island Lake, my other seven hiking companions chose to eat lunch while I took a well-deserved, much-enjoyed swim in the lake. Alone. Refreshing. Peaceful. I eyed the island and wondered how long it would take to swim to it, but then I realized we’d set a hard 30-minute cap and it would have to wait for another time.

Looking back, I realized I’d been making room for the past two weeks. First with blueberries. Then in the yard. And again on the trail.

A Sloshy Surprise

I’ve also been experimenting with my training. My husband purchased a “Tidal Tank hydrovest”, a waterbag that sits on top of a backpack-like device. As I walk stairs or hills, it challenges my core and balance like nothing else. To my surprise, it has prepared me for something I never had on my radar: trail running.

When I needed to race back to the car for an afternoon appointment, I started speeding up until I was hopping over rocks and roots. Instead of feeling burdened by a 20-pound pack, I felt light, carefree, and wonderfully alive. I hadn’t planned to run; my body simply responded. Thanks, slosh training.

The Inside Work

I’ve also been toying with the internal shifts that come with rewriting stories I’ve carried for years. Instead of trying to impress others, I’m simply trying to be my authentic self.  Likewise, I’m letting go of the “best diet” and instead, giving myself permission to experiment.

Once I remove all the clutter, I notice my truest self.

As I reflected on the past two weeks, I realized I didn’t create anything — the birds were already singing. The berries were already sweet. My body had quietly become stronger while I wasn’t paying attention. The quiet lakes were already waiting beyond the crowds. And underneath all the experimenting and striving, my authentic self was there all along. Making room simply allowed me to notice her again.

Every season asks us something different. I originally thought the time beyond Ajax would be about learning about grief. I’ve come to realize that summer isn’t asking me to add another goal. Instead, it seems to be asking me to make room. Room for what, exactly, depends on what I’m removing. What could you remove this season to access your best self?