I woke up one morning recently and realized that I was completely out of whack. It wasn’t sudden. It had probably taken years for me to lose touch with myself and to fall utterly out of balance.

Around the time of this personal enlightenment, I happened to stumble upon a photo of a smiling woman (on her business Web site) in a bikini dancing around on top of a slippery log in a rather chilly-looking lake. I think that the picture was supposed to portray a healthy mix of sexiness, playfulness, and athleticism. But I would guess that within seconds of the click of the camera, she was looking more like a drowned rat who might have even bruised her back on the way down. Aside from the silliness of the whole thing, I was primarily struck with the thought, “just who are we trying to be – and for whom?”

As a mother of two young children, I have found myself figuratively teetering on the same slick balance beam. Barely keeping it together amidst all of the strains and stresses of family life, I am so busy trying to stay on the log that I haven’t taken a moment to ask, “how the heck did I get here – and please, can I get off now?”

I’ve heard other women (and men) compare this time of life to being on a treadmill. Have you ever had one of those babies get the best of you? You lose pace with the machine and it literally sweeps your feet right out from under you. Who wants to live like that? It’s true that life moves quickly these days and there is much to do. But there must be a way to slow it all down just enough so that we can remember it when we’re older.

Finding Balance

When I was twenty years old, I spent the summer working at a camp in New Hampshire. The camp was founded by the American Youth Foundation, which was founded by a man named William H. Danforth. (In his spare time, he also started a little company known as Ralston Purina.) Danforth believed in something he called the fourfold life – a balance between one’s mental, physical, social, and spiritual capacities. He felt that if these four “quadrants,” so to speak, were in equilibrium, then a person would be able to live his best life.

I must say that my life was pretty great during those ten weeks at camp when I actually followed his approach.  But over the 15 career- and family-filled years since that lovely summer in the mountains, I will admit that I had practically forgotten all about Danforth and his grand ideas.

Taking a Whole-Self Approach

Like almost every woman that I know in her thirties and forties, I have been receptive to virtually any decent idea that promises to bring a greater sense of peace to my life. I have meditated a little, exercised plenty, soaked in hundreds of baths, and consumed gallons of herbal tea. And it has all been effective to some extent. Some women I know are fans of yoga, while others read voraciously.

These are all great ways to try and recharge and reconnect with the inner-us. But they’re all isolated activities. They’re not part of an overall life approach that makes all the pieces work together. They help us cope with this life on the slippery log, but they don’t help us get off of it. I want more to my life than just looking good in a bathing suit while spinning on an out-of-control floating tree trunk. I want my children to look up to their mother as someone who is charge of her life (to some extent) and manages it well enough to have plenty of time and energy to give away to others.

Living a Fourfold Life

At the age of 34, I am setting out on a personal adventure to rediscover Danforth’s fourfold living. I think of it as an investment plan.

Several years ago, my husband and I met with a financial advisor who introduced a savings concept of consistently filling various “pots” (a 401K, college fund, a Roth IRA, etc.) throughout our income-producing years to ensure that we would have enough set aside down the road. The path to fourfold living, for me, is a similar kind of investment. The health and prosperity of my different “pots” — my mind, my body, my spirit, and my place in the community — are just a little harder to measure.

But the best part is that I don’t have to wait thirty years to reap the benefits of a little discipline now. The treadmill isn’t a sentence – it’s a choice. And I’m choosing to get off.