The last retreat I went on was my trip to Colorado. For possibly the first time ever, I had relaxed into the feeling that I deserved solitude. I reveled in the experience of having someone take care of me. I embraced my independence, and felt myself filled up with the energy and creativity that stress had robbed from me. So when my beloved friend Woody asked me, for the umpteenth time, to join him and our mutual buddy, Theresa, at his cottage in Michigan, I forced myself to give up my need to control my family’s every move and joined them.
Woody’s cottage was built by his grandfather in 1922, on the banks of Lake Leelanau, and little has changed inside the cottage since then. Aside from the indoor plumbing, the family has been steadfast in their efforts to maintain the look and feel that Grandad was striving for when he found the remote beachfront property and built a getaway for his family nearly a century ago.
Leland, Michigan is no longer remote – it has become a popular summer tourist destination. But the cottage rests on a secluded parcel of land, with nothing to disturb its expansive view of the lake. Inside the cottage, memorabilia fills every bit of wall space – from pictures of Grandad at thirty-two, to Grandad at 103, to animals carved from driftwood that Woody and his brothers sculpted during their childhoods. It is a virtual museum of Perkins family history, and the unfamiliarity of such deep tradition touches and intrigues me. We spent the first night examining every photo and child’s painting and antique kitchen tool – questioning Woody about every memory attached to the physical remnants of his family.
Our curiosity satisfied, we sat by the fire, sipped wine and compared our childhoods to the childhoods of the privileged Perkins children. Privileged, not because they had money or influence, but because the family had a deep sense of tradition that every generation honored more than the last. I settled in and began, once again, to believe I deserved this holiday from the office, responsibility for my husband, and worries about my teenagers.
The three of us quickly released our attachment to control and began to act like teenagers ourselves. We wandered through the charming little tourist towns buying fudge at the fudge shop and bags of cherry jams to take home. We sampled quiches and white fish at every little restaurant we found along the way. We climbed Sleeping Bear Dunes until our legs ached. Then we sat in front of a raging fire in the old stone fireplace in the cottage. And we sat. And we sat, filled with love for each other, and contentment with our lives.
I don’t know if Leland, Michigan really does hold magic that other little waterfront towns don’t hold. But I do know that contentment is often lost as we struggle to meet deadlines, manage responsibilities to others, and deal with the urgency of the mundane and the meaningless. Colorado, Leland, Michigan, and a million other destinations hold the magic to restore our contentment and keep us forever young.
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