There are many metaphors for life to be found in the art of fly fishing. Perhaps my favorite is “the pause.”
When fly casting, the most consequential part of the stroke is the pause — the brief cessation of arm movement that occurs between the backcast and the forecast. It is where the magic happens. That small, intentional stillness has come to mean something far more to me lately. As I have struggled with grief this last year and a half since the passing of my incredible son Adam, fly fishing has helped me discover the quiet, steady power of inserting pauses in my life.
I am doing nothing, yet everything essential is happening.
My life has always been at full speed, moving from one activity, appointment, and commitment to the next. Lately, I am learning to slow down — to take the pauses I once rushed past. Pauses to get away from the noise, expectations, and pressure to perform in a certain way. Pauses to allow myself to not feel responsible for everything happening around me. Pauses to listen to the quiet whispers of my God. Pauses to sit and share humanity with another person who struggles. Pauses to connect and remind myself that I am not alone. Pauses to let life sink in before I respond. Pauses to let my Higher Power (Jesus) take control as I sit back a little and allow life to unwind as He wills it. Pauses to accept. Pauses to hope a little more. Pauses to be gentle with myself and others.
I liken these pauses to my heart. With every beat, there is an imperceptible pause between relaxation and contraction. When I pause in life, I repolarize, so to say, and am better prepared to continue beating — steadier, stronger, and more alive.
Fly fishing has made me more attentive to these pauses. In a cast, the pause is the smallest sliver of time — usually just one second, no more than two. I send the line behind me and my arm pauses. The weighted line travels in a tight loop, laying out completely and pulling the flexible nine-foot fly rod backward, loading it with potential energy.
I am doing nothing but holding the rod handle, yet everything essential to a fine cast is happening. The cast takes its own shape through physics and an energy I may have created, but which now lives on its own. With my eyes closed and my mind focused, I can feel the pause ending. As I move my arm and body into the forward cast, there is far more in the line than when I sent it behind me.
The magic has happened — the pause — the part of the cast that comes not from me, but from Someone far more capable than me.
As I have learned to pause in the fly-casting stroke, I now seek to know when to start and end the pauses required in my life.