In the crowded years of raising children, hobbies are often the first things to go. "Me time" somehow becomes redefined as trips to the dentist without children in tow.
I miss the long stretches of uninterrupted time to get lost in a project or an instrument, to see it through from start to finish, to become fully absorbed and unaware of anything around me. Those opportunities evaporated twelve years ago with the birth of my daughter, replaced by snippets of time bookended by unpredictable nap lengths or younger attention spans. Those snippets were often filled by (appropriately) higher priorities like laundry, grant writing, picking goldfish out from between the couch cushions, work emails, or a nap on the couch.
A little over two years ago, we moved to a new town close to the ocean. As the dust settled, I discovered a chance to reset priorities, reframe opportunities, and reconnect with parts of myself that had been hibernating for over a decade: I started walking on the beach. I loved the way I felt on the walks - completely absorbed, mind calm, refreshed.
I was born and raised on a beach, albeit a freshwater one. Walking on the beach, searching for "lucky stones" and "turtlebacks", letting stones run through my fingers while listening to the lapping waves - all of it felt incredibly familiar and reassuring, with the new twist of salty air and ocean surf.
As I walked on the ocean beach as an adult, I found all kinds of interesting things. Perfectly smooth pebbles. Sand-blasted driftwood. Sparkling sea glass. Stranded lobsters. So I started collecting them (except the lobster), a thing or two from each walk, and put them on a table in the basement.
Then a funny thing happened: as I passed the growing collection on my way to load the third round of laundry of the week, I'd smile inside and a bit of that "walking on the beach" feeling would seep back inside me, if only for a moment. So I'd stop at the table and play for a moment, moving a pebble from one place to another before picking up the laundry basket again. Soon, the stones and glass began to take shape. Without making time or space for it other than my trips to the laundry room, I'd created something.
Apparently, I didn't need long stretches of uninterrupted time for a hobby. I just needed the small snippets I already had, a dog who took me to the beach almost daily, and a readjusted sense of expectations. So I did another small project (over six weeks), then another, and another.
Now, my kids often sit with me when I bring out the "pebble art" bag, making creations of their own. They certainly enjoy combing the beach with me and will often bring me treasures with nature art in mind. "Wouldn't this stone make a perfect whale, Mom?" I've even been known to have them drag downed birch logs home from hikes to await inspiration!
I love that I've found my hobbyist-self again. It looks different after a decade-long absence: shorter spurts, more little people around, and multi-tasked with exercise, time outside, dog-walking, and even laundry. Yet the effect is the same: time to lose myself so I can find my center.