When I woke up there were two turkey vultures circling so closely overhead I could see not only the whiteness of their under-wings and the redness of their beaks, but I could also hear the sound of the wind passing between their feathers. 

“Hey, I’m not dead!” I groggily shouted at them. 

I was propped against a juniper tree, enjoying its shade. I checked my watch. It was 5pm, and I’d been sleeping for an hour. I didn’t know where I was exactly, having wandered about 30 minutes into the chaparral away from the nearest trail to this spot earlier in the afternoon. But the longer I sat there, the happier I felt. So, I just kept sitting, breathing, not moving. In that silence, I watched a Pinyon Jay land on another juniper. Then a second. And soon a flock – iridescent blue, fingered feathers – flitting tree to tree, branch by branch. Like a desert wind they floated into my world unexpectedly and shook me, but as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. Later, a herd of antler-less elk appeared. I wanted to hold my breath to steal a few extra seconds with them. But, one saw me. Looking at me quizzically, he craned his neck, snorted a little, and turned, leading the others away in a half-hearted canter. 

I was alone in the wilderness, and I’d rarely felt so full.

When I started this journey, someone told me he didn’t understand why anyone would travel alone. “I don’t see the point of experiencing something if you have no one to share the memory with. It’s like if a tree falls in a forest and there’s no one to hear...”

I understand where he is coming from. Completely. I’ve felt that way in the past too. I remember traveling alone several years ago and feeling an acute sense of isolation after just two days. After having spoken to literally no one in 24 hours except waiters, I remember eavesdropping on nearby tables at my hotel in case there’d be some moment I could jump in. How embarrassing… 

And yet, this time, it feels so different. Of course, there are moments when I feel acutely lonely. Of course, there are moments when I’m griped with sadness. But my commitment to traveling alone has been opening up so much for me. I think it is because traveling alone has given me the space to redefine my relationships with 1) myself, 2) the natural world, and 3) others.

At first, in the hours of silence, I had to face myself, as I am, not as I want to be seen. As an unconscious people pleaser and a flirt, it’s been easy for me to contort myself into whoever I think the person I am with wants me to be. It’s been easy for me fall into despair if I wasn’t being adored. 

But when I’m alone for hours and hours at a time, out of cell service range, no music in my ears, free of distractions and people to please, that is a much harder trick. This can be excruciating. In the worst moments of shame and fear I can want to desperately find reassurance elsewhere – but miles off the path, amid the chaparral, the hawks and elk aren’t likely to tell me I’m beautiful. There’s no one to comfort me, but me. I must stand with myself, as a I am. In time, if I sit with the discomfort long enough, it always goes away. I’m enough. As are you. I don’t need to pretend, and I don’t need to be afraid of being alone. Nor do you. I am learning I am capable of finding peace with myself when I alone, and it’s been extremely empowering.

From this place of confidence, I’m also beginning to see how much control I have over my emotional well-being too. For instance, while I cannot control when I feel sadness, I can control my reaction to it. I can wallow in it. I can succumb to hopelessness. I can try to let it go. Similarly, I cannot control when I feel happy, but I can cultivate a practice of gratitude, even when I’m feeling sad. In this, I’m finding traveling alone isn’t just making me feel more confident, it’s making me feel more powerful. 

Traveling alone has also taught me to live in the radical now. By illustration – how many times have I been on a hike and midway through my mind wanders or I check my phone? It’s so hot. How long do I have to go? When will I hit those the hills we have to climb? I’m so hungry. I wonder how I’ll ever patch things up with my friend? I have so much work, I need to get back and do it. Do I have service yet? Do I have any new emails or likes to my post? … How often? More than I wish to admit. But stepping back, I see now, it’s not just on the trail, but it was also in my office, in meetings, on phone calls, on my yoga mat, and at dinners with friends I care deeply about… 

In contrast, traveling alone has given me the space to practice observing what is emerging before me right now, and simply staying with that. This is the opposite of how I lived my entire life up to this point – with obsessive planning on how to create happy outcomes elsewhere, later. Or obsessive checking for additional external stimuli elsewhere. When I do those thing I often fail to see the complexity and enchantment that’s always already been at my feet (even amid the awkwardness, hunger, brambles, and the sand storms). I’m seeing now that I’m often surrounded by serendipity, it’s just I didn’t sit still enough through the discomfort to see it; didn’t hold space for it to emerge in its own way. 

When I simply sit still -- confident of myself, free of the need for attachment, holding space for whatever (or whoever) is before me, as I did on the juniper’s trunk -- I’m finding fantastical, irrational, imprudent, overflowing reservoirs of wonder, love, and joy. So much more connection is available in this moment than can ever be planned for tomorrow. The world is so much more beautiful and complex than any dreams I am capable of fathoming on my own. 

Traveling alone is giving me chances every day to practice this. And though I still often fail – more and more I’m finding myself found in rapturous enchantment with strangers and the world alike.