Listening in Isle Royale: One of America's Most Remote National Parks

“If what a tree does is lost on you you are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.” David Wagoner

I just returned to civilization after spending five days completely off the grid on Isle Royale, the most wild and least visited National Park in the lower 48. It marks the 52nd National park I’ve visited on my journey.

The 45-mile long island is many miles from anything in the middle of Lake Superior. It has no paved roads, no cell reception, and an official census population of ZERO. Even the rangers leave it in the winter. On any given day moose vastly outnumber the humans, of which only 14,000 step ashore each year. The island has a few buildings on both ends of the island, and a few campgrounds with primitive shelters along the coast, but beside that the permanent human imprint on the island is negligible.     

In planning my trip, I decided to hike the Greenstone Ridge, which runs the length of the entire island. I figured that’d be the surest way to have the most solitude.

Though I’d never backpacked alone for 5 days before, the idea of hiking, eating, and camping alone over that length of time seemed like an important rite of passage — a way to prove to myself how much I’ve grown on this journey – both in terms of physical and mental self-sufficiency. (After all, when this journey began I’d never even slept in a tent before.)

Well… actually I should be honest, that’s not the only reason I wanted to get off the grid. The truth is after three years of legal back and forth, I signed my divorce papers the morning before I headed north to the park. To say it’s been an ordeal – (for both of us I’m sure) — would be an understatement.

I may have worked for years to get to the point of signing a settlement, but once it arrived, after the signing the documents, I had NO desire to celebrate, let alone even tell anyone about it. I didn’t feel waves of relief. I felt sad, empty, and numb in turn.  

When something truly ends, when the fight is over, when all the noise of the arguments no longer matters, sometimes a space opens up that couldn’t before. For me, in that space, it was hard not to remember how it began. By which I don’t just mean how it fell apart. I mean what brought us together before it got hard. What sustained us for years before. In that void I could finally remember truly the contours of the love that was lost. I found that as difficult to face as any of the moments which tore us asunder. 

All of which is to say, once that the papers were finally signed, I was in a bit of a state. I felt so ready for this painful chapter of my life to be over and to move on. It’s been too hard, for too long. Let me get to the peace and solitude of nature I thought.

The thing is – to quote the Rolling Stones – you can’t always get what you want — something the universe let me know loud and clear before I even stepped foot in the park.

---

Getting to Isle Royale is a bit of an ordeal under normal circumstances. Given its location in the middle of Lake Superior, roughly 20 miles from Minnesota and 60 from Michigan, the only way to get to the island is by private boat, on a 5 hour one-way ferry ride, or sea plane. I don’t own a boat, and the ferry is closed in 2020. That meant I had to take a sea plane from Grand Marais, 4.5 hours north of Minneapolis.

I’d never been on a small plane before this adventure, but to get around Alaska you have to take them. Up there, I learned on a sunny, non-windy day they are treat. But I’ve also learned in the wind they are a terror. While crashes are rare (roughly 1 crash per 100,000 flight hours) that is 2,058x more likely than when you fly on on a major airline.

So, when I arrived at the airport I felt relieved that it was a beautiful sunny day and the flight was only 30 minutes.

My plane had 3 passengers plus the pilot. After taking off we were scheduled to drop one guy off at Windigo (on the far west side of the island where I’d end up), and then continue on to Rock Harbor (on the far east side of the island).

I sat immediately behind the pilot and next to a guy about my age. He had a mop of curly hair and wild eyes that betrayed no small degree of terror at realizing just how small the plane was once we were abroad. I made small talk with him and tried to reassure him based on my experience on tiny bush planes in Alaska last summer that these planes are great for comfort and views. In truth, those reassurances were for me as much as for him. Since it was a clear, sunny day it’d be a beautiful flight I told him. And sure enough, as we flew over the North Shore before heading out over Lake Superior, we all went slack-jawed seeing the maples and oaks in full peak from above. 

Thirty minutes later we began our descent toward Windigo. 

I saw the guy next to me tensed. I gave him a smile, a thumbs up, and yelled “we are about to land!” 

The pilot had a gentle touch as he eased the plane from on high, down to equal height with the ridge line, then to eyeline with the treetops on the shore, and finally just feet above the water. 

Then suddenly – VROOM – he hit some lever sharply, the engines purred, and we were climbing rapidly up again. 

Meanwhile, our pilot said nothing. No sign of alarm or explanation whatsoever. Looking out the cockpit window I could see another plane right before us had also aborted its landing. As we climbed again we followed that other plane around the whole west end of the island in a big loop. 10 minutes later we took the same angle toward the bay and began our descent again.

Are we in danger? Is this safe? Should I be bracing myself?

I gave the guy next to me a forced smile. No thumbs up this time.

As we descended again a second time it was just as smooth as the first. Out the front cockpit window I saw the first plane ahead of us land. We eased down toward the water behind them, and then before I knew it we too touched down on the water and began our glide toward the dock.

It was only at this point that the pilot took off his headset, turned back to us, and calmly let us know, “Engine problems. This might be a while.” Then put his headset back on. 

Wait, what? Excuse me. Can I ask some questions, sir? What problems? Whose engines? Will we be able to take off again? Do I want to be on the plane when it does?

When we got to shore the guy next to me was out of that plane as soon as the door opened, and once he had his bag, he was off into the woods without so much as a goodbye. 

The pilot, now also on the dock, leaned back to the window: “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with the other plane’s engine. You’ll stay warmest if you stay in the plane. I don’t know how long this will take.” He went to the other plane, joined a ranger and the other pilot who were looking under the hood of the other plane, and all three gave up and both disappeared ashore to somewhere unseen.

My first thought was - thank god! At least it wasn’t our plane’s engine that’s broken. But then, in looking at the other plane and realizing it was IDENTICAL to the one I was sitting in I realized I had a lot of important questions. Like, how often do these planes have unexpected engine problems that are only discovered mid-flight?

For almost two hours, Brian and I waited in the tiny plane compartment. So much for solitude, I thought. But soon, I didn’t mind. We had a fascinating conversation about his family’s history, his war service, and the island – which he’d been coming out to his entire life. In fact, I was enjoying it so much I actually felt a little sad when I saw the pilot return. 

The pilot was joined by a very smiley middle-aged solo backpacker and also the pilot of the other plane. They checked the knots tying the other plane to dock, and then boarded our plane. I guess they were just going to leave it there broken all night…

As they got in, the backpacker told us: “I drew the lucky straw!”

He went on: “I feel a little bad for those other three guys though. They warn you over and over to bring a few days of extra food in case you get stuck on the island, but those guys were so mad. I don’t think they brought extra provisions.”

Wait, what? How often do people get “stuck” for extra time on the island, I wondered.

Our pilot added, “It’s like people forget we are miles off shore in the wilderness here. Earlier this summer there was a whole week of fog that wouldn’t lift. So, we couldn’t do any flights.” Um… I thought about everything in my pack. I know packed some extra granola bars but definitely not DAYS of extra food.

“How long will they have to wait?” I asked timidly.

The pilot of the other plane, who was now pressed elbow to elbow with me shrugged. “Who knows.”

And without any further explanation, our pilot put his headset back on, started the propeller, pushed us back into the bay, and then up into the air. 

---

When we finally landed in Rock Harbor, this time without incident, it was already 630pm.

People had been waiting on the dock to go home for hours. Without cell reception they’d probably had no idea why the plane wasn’t showing up. Once he gave me my bag, our pilot immediately turned his attention to them. I assume he was supposed to give me some sort of orientation or confirmation when he’d pick me up, but he was overwhelmed with the new passengers. So, I just left.

Moreover, when you land on the island you are supposed to go over your itinerary and get a lengthy safety briefing with a ranger. But since it was so late, there were no rangers to be found. They must have all gone home for the day.

To cross the island in just five nights, I knew I would have to start hiking then. I couldn’t wait for the morning to find a ranger. So, I threw on my pack and headed west trying to get as many miles in as possible before it got dark. 

Okay, I said to reset myself, nothing bad happened. You are fine. Finally, your feet are on the ground. Now is the time for peace, solitude, and freedom!

Or not…

Literally the moment I left the inhabited part of island, 5 minutes into my walk, I turned a corner, and MOOSE.

Most national park visitors are scared of bears – that’s appropriate – but, moose actually kill more people than bears. If you’ve never been beside one, you probably don’t realize just how big and mean they can be, especially males in the fall when they are literally crazed as they ooze testosterone and prepare for the rut. That said, typically upon hearing a human they run away.

But, after waiting for some time, my antlered moose friend didn’t move. I was less than 100 feet away, now shielded behind a birch trunk. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here, I wondered. So, still behind my trees, I tried speaking to him. 

“Hi Mr. Moose. I’m a human. I’m no danger. Can I cross your path?” In retrospect, I know this wasn’t exactly assertive, but I did want to respect his size. Not surprisingly, he did nothing. 

Next, I tried clapping and talking a little more directly, still from behind my tree. “Okay Mr. Moose! Time to move Mr. Moose! Come on now!” Equally ineffective. 

So, I gave up, and put my pack down, and just watched. 

It was as if the universe was laughing at me thinking I was in charge, that I could rush things at the pace I wanted, “How many times do I need to teach you this? Remember the plane ride? Or how about that divorce?” 

When the moose eventually did move several minutes later, it was only half way off the trail, giving me an excellent additional multi-minute view of his just giant rear side before he finally scampered off.

I made it to camp well after dark. After getting settled I decided not to eat. Maybe I’ll need the food later? I reasoned.

---

The next morning I got up before dawn. I had a long way to go, and I felt like I needed to get an early start. 

As a consequence, I was pretty groggy. So, it wasn’t until after I’d already fully packed my bag that I realized I was still wearing my long underwear. Even though it was only 40 degrees then, I knew I needed to change or I’d boil while I was hiking later. 

So, I put down my bag, took off my pants and long underwear, and went to grab for my regular underwear. Of course, it wasn’t at the top of my bag. So, butt-naked from the waist down, I rummaged through my already packed pack to find something to change into. 

At that moment, I heard a rustle in the woods. Oh crap. Another moose? I wondered.

I stood up straight, dropping my pack, my nakedness fully faced at whatever danger might be approaching.

And what do you think it was? It was something much more terrifying than a moose - a tiny, hunched over, white-haired woman lugging her pack.

I yelped for her to leave while I grasped for something to cover myself. 

She kept walking toward me. Did she not hear me? I yelled for her to go away again.

Then she scolded me: “Oh, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before!” 

---

This wasn’t the last unexpected (or uncomfortable) conversation I had on the island, but it was the only one that happened while I was naked.

That said, most of my time on the island was spent alone. 

Unlike the crowded trails of most National Parks, I rarely saw (or heard) any other hikers. When I did see other people, it was usually hours between sightings. 

In those vast swaths of time, I saw so much, did so much, thought about so much. I was getting exactly what I hoped for in terms of solitude. But after the third day, as I was taking stock of my trip, I also realized felt surprisingly exhausted and irritable most of the time.  I was “enjoying” it, but I was also counting down the miles and time until I could go home.

Why? What was I so mad about? My divorce? Even though I was alone with no phone to distract me, I felt like I’d been so busy, I hadn’t even had time to be bothered by it.

So what was consuming my attention?

Well, for one thing, I was upset to find so many scars to the natural environment from human activity all over the island. I thought its remoteness would mean “pristine wilderness” with no sign of human destruction. Instead, even though it’s been a protected sanctuary since 1940, I discovered polluted pools of water, mining pits from the 1800s, and signs of prior deforestations which appeared to have burnt down ten of thousands of ancient large trees. It was a visual metaphor for me about how much we humans can hurt things, and just how long those scars remain.

It also reminded me how hopeless I feel about our country’s current environmental policies. While congress just passed a bipartisan bill to fund deferred maintenance in the National Parks, the Trump administration has also rolled back over 100 environmental protections and opened up millions of acres of pristine wilderness to mining and logging in the last four years, including in the Tongass National Forest, ANWR, Gates of the Arctic, the Grand Staircase, and parts of northern Minnesota.

I’ve been to nearly all of these places on this journey. They are absolutely stunning and risk being forever destroyed in our lifetimes by these short-term decisions. Of course, I know a vibrant economy and good jobs are important to the health of a nation. I am not a radical. I am a capitalist at my core. Moreover, much of my family legacy is in both timber and paper milling. So, I get the nuance. But if this adventure has taught me anything it’s that a tree doesn’t only have value once you cut it down. 

But I couldn’t really blame my entire mood on those political thoughts. I was more bothered by immediate anxieties and discomforts. I felt disappointed about the lack of sunshine the first few days. I was worried about contaminated water. I felt like I wasn’t getting any good pictures. I worried whether the plane would be fixed, and whether that’d create a cascade of delays that’d leave me stuck on the island for days on end. I worried whether my return flight would even be safe. More immediately, every day I feared if I didn’t wake up early enough or walk fast enough, there’d be nowhere “good” for me to sleep at night. It’s hard enough carrying a 45 pound pack so far every day, doing so while speed walking is even more exhausting.

Of course, I see now that I was obsessing on those mental battles for other reasons too. Even though I was alone for days on end, and in one of the wildest places in America, getting locked into those thought loops allowed me (with seeming integrity to myself) to NOT have any space to face the feelings I really didn’t want to face about my divorce — namely, my hurt, regret, shame, and anger. There was no time for it! I was too busy fighting and beating back myriad immediate threats. But I hadn’t realized that yet.

---

So, there I was on that third night, feeling so grumpy, after eating dinner alone, when I went back down to a lake’s edge to fill up my water bottles for the next morning. 

There, standing by the shore was another solo backpacker. He was probably in his early 40s, totally bald on top and with a great unkempt beard hanging many inches below his chin. He was the first solo backpacker I’d seen all trip. Everyone else had been with friends or a partner. (Believe me, I noticed).

Immediately, I could feel his nervous energy in the sharp movements of his hands trying to attach his water filter to his CamelBak. Before I could say anything, rather than say hello, he turned to me and asked, “How bad do you think the parasites are in this lake?” 

I mean… I wanted to say it’s a barely moving body of water with beaver ponds at both ends, but opted for the simpler: “Probably terrible…” 

“Right, right. I’m filtering. But if it was that bad, would they really allow us here? … I mean my hands get wet. Will they get in through my fingers? And the ranger was very clear, very clear -- Purell doesn’t kill parasites.” He went on, “I can deal with a gut parasite, but I don’t want to get a tapeworm in my lungs. It’d be there laying eggs, feeding off me years, and I wouldn’t even know! Can they even get those out?” 

I thought: oh ******** do I have a lung parasite already? 

Then I remembered, wait, I’ve been super careful. I bought an extra strength filter before the trip, and I even have been adding iodine to my water after I filter as a second layer of defense. If I have a parasite then everyone that comes to island must have one too. That seems unlikely. I’ve done what I can do. Calm down. There’s nothing more to do.

Seeing that gave me compassion for him, and so I tried to calm him down: “Yes, definitely scary. I’m sure we are fine.” (I wasn’t sure we were fine, but what more could we do?"). “I’m Tim by the way.” We bumped elbows (my covid era handshake equivalent of choice), and he seemed to relax a bit..

“And, maybe,” I went on, a bit of mischievousness now kicking in, “we’ll both make other friends out here too, ones we’ll always carry inside us... forever” He groaned.

We talked for a while about what brought us to the island (he’d had a hard year with his family), what we’d hoped to find (solitude and no cell phone access), and what we actually were finding (a lot of beauty AND unexpected stress). 

He told me his pack was super heavy from the 3 days of extra food he was carrying. (Did I miss the memo on this?) I told him I didn’t have that much. “Look for me Windigo,” he said, I’m sure I’ll have some to spare. I thanked him in advance. We were both feeling better.

At the end of our conversation Elijah asked where I was headed the next day. I told him. He said, anxiety returning to his voice again like at the start, “Me too, I’ve heard from people it’s very busy. Much busier than here. I should probably get up and get on the path before sunrise so I make sure I get a spot.” 

I thought, again, ****** - am I going to have to get up in the darkness to get a spot? Will everyone be rushing in the morning?

Then, I thought, oh my gosh – stop. Seriously, stop. Settle down. If the campsite is full, pitch your tent in the woods 10 feet away. There’s tons of flat ground.

Then, oh **** … this guy, with his consuming fears about danger and not enough is visual representation of what it must look like in my own head. No wonder I’m so grumpy.

And, then, the big blow, oh **** this isn’t just an island problem, is it?

Could I have found a better mirror for my own anxieties than Elijah? Here was the universe saying: “Dude, seriously? Can you not hear me? Remember the plane? The moose? Your divorce? This is what your brain sounds like, about everything, all the time. Do you think this is serving you? Do you want to live like this forever?”

There was no real scarcity issue about tent spots. There’s never been a scarcity issue about good photos, clean water, or enough food. Not here, not back in my life before this journey began.

Before I knew what I was saying, I calmly responded: “I don’t know. I don’t want to sacrifice my hike out of fear anymore.” He nodded, as if I’d said something that touched him.

Despite that, I never saw him again. When I got up in the morning, a bit after sunrise, his campsite was long since cleared out. I made a leisurely breakfast and enjoyed a slow walk. I found a campsite, no problem.

We all have our own paths, even when we follow the same road.

---

For the remainder of the trip my mantra became: “Am I sacrificing my walk?” And if the answer was yes, I stopped, literally, until my mind quieted and I could hear nothing but the wild.

I was just as alone as ever, but for the first time the entire trip I was finally hearing the subtler sounds of the forest: the plunking of acorns tossed to the ground from the treetops by squirrels; the gulping way moose let you know they don’t like you are around (even before you can see them); leaves falling from the branches, catching other leaves, and making pattering sounds like rain on a roof. At night, my body still, my eyes unseeing, I heard owls hooting calls and responses, wolves howling far away, and even what sounded like moose mating one night. 

The last day I walked more slowly than ever before, basking in the shade of the hardwood forest -- tall sugar maples and oaks all around. The trees formed a thick canopy above me. Below me the forest floor was colored with fallen leaves and saplings only knee high. Above me the leaves on outstretched branches were still green, but when I looked higher up, way up, sometimes I could see their crowns – shimmering crimson and gold in the sunlight. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen this entire journey.

Despite that, a few times I felt that fears or anger boiling up again. Its causes varied. But this time, when it happened I just stopped, and said to myself: “Yes.”

Yes, that’s it. Yes, I am angry. Yes, that happened. Yes, I am here. Yes, I have many more miles to walk. Yes, these trees are a miracle. Yes, I have a lot of anger. Yes, I am angry at many other people. Yes, I am even angrier at myself. Yes, it’s time to stop pretending and face what’s real in my emotional world. Yes, I have enough. Yes, I am safe. Yes, stop moving. Yes, be still. Yes, listen.

The next day the plane arrived just when it was supposed to. I didn’t have to eat any of my emergency food after all. As we flew back to the mainland, I pressed my forehead against the window, staring down at the waters and trees all afire with autumn splendor far below. We landed safely right on time.

In a certain sense, nothing significant happened during my five days on Isle Royale. My plane didn’t have engine problems. I never got hurt. I had enough food. I didn’t get sick. I got to admire a moose’s butt for many minutes from up close. I flashed an old lady. I met a bearded man who perfectly mirrored my inner anxieties. I heard (A LOT) of animals having sex. I saw beautiful trees. 

Yet in a deeper sense, those days were some of the most consequential of my entire 18-month journey – tearing down so many richly adorned veils I’d hung to prevent myself from facing my undesirable feelings. 

For the rest of my life I know I will carry so much of what I experienced on Isle Royale… fingers crossed it doesn’t include tapeworms. 

A Man, A Plan, and A Pandemic

In a time long, long ago, before “social distancing” was a thing, and when hugs were still how the woke said hello, I headed back on the road. I was excited. After months of debating “what’s next,” I had a plan: the time for endless thinking inside was over. 

According to the Gregorian calendar that was March 4th, 2020, roughly 3 weeks ago, though it sure feels like a decade ago now, right?

As I headed out on the road I wondered what this chapter of my journey would be like. What would I see that I didn’t expect? What new things would I discover inside myself? What common themes would emerge?

Quickly, one answer seemed to be forming: (re)connection. Everywhere I went (with little or no advanced planning) I saw friends who I’d only met in the last 12 months.

Caption: yoga teacher training friends

During just 9 days I hiked, skied, ate, and stayed with 9 different friends and families. 

Caption: my friends Faria, Ziad and Amani who I met in December

Each interaction was unique, profound, deep, vulnerable, and lasted hours.  None of them overlapped. So, I barely had a minute to myself except when I was driving. I didn’t care. These various and very different people – spanning ages 2 to 72 – absolutely filled me up. Though our conversations often treaded into weighty topics, in the end, every one of them lifted me up and made me feel abundant in spirit.

Caption: My cousin Jason and his daughter Coraleigh

One particularly sweet moment occurred after spending two days with my friend CJ (who attended my yoga teacher trainings) and her family. As I was standing in their family’s driveway getting ready to leave her youngest son (about six) turned to me and asked: “When are you coming back?” 

I told him, “I don’t know, but I hope soon.” 

“How about tomorrow?” He suggested excitedly. 

“No not tomorrow…” I laughed awkwardly, not sure how to reply. I was tongue-tied and deeply touched. 

Caption: CJ and her sons

As I drove the 3+ hours out of the mountains to my next stop I felt aglow. There’s nothing quite like someone telling you how they want you around, even if that someone is a child you just met. 

Hours later I looked at my phone. I’d received three texts, all from CJ. 

Did she have more messages about how much her children missed me? I wondered excitedly.

Not exactly. 

Here is the first text, a simple image:

Wait? What? I don’t get it… I thought. Was she trying to send me a picture of her dog?

A second text: “You might need this.” I looked at the image again - oh **** my suitcase! It can’t be…

The third text – a crazed faced emoji.

And so, the next afternoon, after spending all morning and the prior night until 3am talking with my cousin and his wife, I turned around and drove the 3 hours back to pick up my suitcase.

Sadly, I didn’t get stay long. Something told me I needed to get back to Minnesota with everything happening around Corona. Surely this mass hysteria would blow over quickly. It wouldn’t be long until I could get back on the road and back to my carefully thought out plans.

Upon returning home, out of an abundance of caution, one morning I decided to go to the grocery store and get some frozen food – just in case. As I was checking out I received another text from CJ. Fingers crossed it’d be message affirming how much her family all missed me? I thought. 

And … no.

“I am coughing.” 

Then: “Dr thinks it’s the virus… quarantine.”

I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. Should I leave the food and walk away? What’s the protocol for this? I’d already put my items on the conveyer belt. I looked at the cashier. I saw he was wearing gloves. Am I supposed to tell him about the text I received? I still felt fine… Not knowing what to do, I tried to stand as far away as possible and not speak in his direction. “You should change your gloves…”

Once my food was bagged I drove straight home.

After kicking my brother out of our apartment (for his protection…)

Caption: my bother waving me goodbye from 6+ feet away

I lay in bed and waited…

What was happening inside me? I still felt fine, but… was I about to get sick any minute? I was alone. What then? Had I infected others without realizing it? What was happening in the world? I tried to channel my inner positivity and yoga practices. Mind over matter. Don’t catastrophize this.

More texts from CJ. Her fever was spiking.

I dialed up everyone I’d seen in Colorado since I’d been with CJ: “I feel fine, but I just wanted to let you know…”

Once done, I crawled back into bed and drew the curtains even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

Stay calm… I reassured myself as I took my temperature for the 4th time in 2 hours.

To be continued… later this weekend.

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What's Next?

Anniversaries can bring up intense emotions, especially when you are least expecting it. And this week (the one year anniversary of the beginning of my solo wanderings) was no exception. 

I remember the moment when is began so clearly. I was in Sedona, Arizona. That morning, I finished my week long Baptiste training. I felt empowered, but at the same time, I didn’t want to go out entirely on my own, so I’d arranged to spend my first “solo travel day” exploring the mountains with two friends. We spent the day hiking, eating, and talking. But by dinner, as I knew the two were about to leave me for some romantic time between themselves, I still had no plan of what was next. Maybe I’d just stay in town and crash their adventures again the next day? Perhaps, but where would I sleep that night? I hadn’t yet booked a place to stay.

Not wanting to be rude and use my phone in front of them, I went to the bathroom of the restaurant and scrolled through options on hotels.com. But I was appalled how expensive everything that came up was. Sure, I could afford it, but it wasn’t consistent with my values or budget. I couldn’t stomach the idea of spending two hundred dollars on a hotel for myself when I was unemployed. But after a few minutes of searching, and feeling that I’d been in the bathroom too long, I decided to put my phone away and go back to the table still without a plan. 

When we got the check, my friend Kat asked, “where are you staying?” to which I shrugged, and admitted, “I don’t know.”

After hugging them goodbye, I got into my car, turned on the ignition and I felt a moment of panic. What should I punch into the GPS? And then, what am I doing with my life? How could I not have a plan or place to sleep at 8pm at night? I decided to just start driving north. There must be tons of cheap motels nearby I reasoned. (You know the roadside ones that look seedy, with one of those red flashing “vacancy” signs? I’d never been in one, but I assumed they couldn’t cost that much. Right?) Soon I found those motels, but instead of “vacancy” they all also flashed “No”. As I kept driving through the dark, the buildings became scarcer, and the road started to climb, at first gradually then sharply in rapid switchbacks. Without warning, thirty minutes up the mountain, it began to snow, hard (yes in Arizona!). I couldn’t go more than 10 miles an hour. I had no idea if things were about to get worse.

What was I doing driving up a mountain road to nowhere in the dark in a snowstorm? I wanted pull to the side of road and study the map, but not only did I have no signal - it felt unsafe to get near the edge in the dark. Should I go back? No… Not to mention the impossibility of turning around on the steep slippery roads, I was now an hour outside of a town where I knew there was nothing affordable. Go forward? What choice did I have?

Several hour later, after 11pm, I finally found the kind of motel I was looking for near the south rim of the Grand Canyon. There was no going back to see my friends the next day. I was now definitely on on my own, and still without a plan. 

~~~

One year ago… how strange a thing time is. That night feels like a different lifetime. I’ve tasted so much more of life this year than I had in my entire adulthood before. For all of it, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. This year has opened up so much for me: so much of it unexpected, so much of it unplanned.

After a decade of meticulous plotting, carefully crafted choices meant to demonstrate my cunning, and which I thought would please all the right people, but which culminated in serious of spectacularly stupid mistakes, I felt beyond saving. As I thought about the future, on the one hand, I was too tired to plan. On the other hand, I intuited that putting myself into a situation without any of the old guardrails might help me discover how limited my old views of the world had been, and in so doing offer me a possibility for fuller life beyond my current comprehension. 

So much of that has turned out to be true. The road has been a constant, if not always gentle teacher. I am not the same person who set off from Sedona a year ago; I hope and believe that has been mostly for the better.

And yet, so much that I hoped the road would teach me still has felt out of reach, especially: “What’s next?”

~~~

I know other people in my life are also aware it’s been a year. Over the past few weeks I’ve been getting an increasing number of oblique (and sometimes not so oblique) questions like, “So… how much longer are you planning to travel?” or “No pressure, but have you given any thought to what’s next?” or my favorite, “How much longer do you plan for this to go on?”

Sometime it feels as if the questioners fear that I’ve gone crazy, and without an intervention (right now!) I might slide into such an intractable resistance to ever re-joining the conventional working world that it’s only a matter of time until I go full Christopher McCandless and die in the Alaskan wilderness or become a full-time hobo riding the rails. 

I joke. Sort of. I know these questions come in part from a place of love. I know too, they cut so deep because they give voice to my own doubts. I struggle with these same questions internally, ALL THE TIME: 

“Am I doing the right thing? Does this still make sense? Has the journey taught me all it’s meant to? Am I fully taking advantage of this unique opportunity or am I wasting it? What would it mean for me to finish this well? What would ensure this period of my life really meant something?”

Sometimes, I can get so worked up by these questions that I withdraw from the world to think alone for hours on end. I imagine choosing one path, then obsess over all the ways that choice could be wrong. So, I switch, and I imagine taking a different one, but then I find I cannot help but obsess on how option two will keep me from some other goal I think I should be pursuing too. Inevitably, I make no thoughtful decisions, and feel completely overwhelmed. Sometimes, like that first night, I get lucky. Other times, I shut down and turn to “productively” spending my time by watching prestige TV, reading in depth stories about the pervasive corruption in the Trump’s universe, texting friends, or scrolling for hours on end through Instagram. 

Of course, deep down, I know when I do this I’m being avoidant, and that I’m actually caught up in a shame cycle. It’s not lost on me how unique of a gift it is to have the resources and freedom to be able to go on an adventure like this. Sometimes, I feel shame for having used this privilege and still not fully figured out my life. And then in thinking that I can feel fear that the whole thing was actually a careless, hedonistic, and reckless thing to do. Others much more worthy than me would kill for the opportunities I had and threw away. Moreover, it’s not infrequent as of late for me to find out about some former colleague and acquaintance who’s since been promoted or made a small fortune while I was “finding myself.” Will I wake up one day to find I sabotaged my future? 

I feel like perhaps I’m being over-dramatic. It’s not like I’m stuck in these doubts all the time. Sometimes, I feel completely at peace about this ambiguity. Such are the mysteries of the mind. Moreover, in the last two months, I’ve done quite a bit. I’ve explored six National Parks, made several new soul friends, connected with many family members in profound ways, learned new skills, and felt many moments of wonder and peace. But more and more, my self-doubts about “what’s next” have been leading me to feel adrift, write less, and hide myself emotionally from the people I expect will be disappointed in me. 

This week after yet another night spent endlessly debating alone in my mind, “what’s next?” I found no answers. So, having no better idea, I put away my phone, sat on the floor, closed my eyes, and tried to meditate without any app or script. 

At first, my mind refused to be still. I felt awash in my questions, overwhelmed by my indecision. But then, from nowhere, and for no discernible reason, I found myself seeing my fears as though they were people, and I was looking at them from afar. In a voice that was my own I heard myself say: “Oh, hello shame” then: “Oh, hi fear. I see you’ve decided to visit too.”

I felt a momentary clenching in my chest, but just as quickly as it came on it released. I was smiling. Then I was laughing to the empty room. How silly! Looking around my mind, I found they were not alone. Parts of my personality I hadn’t even noticed were missing began to emerge – the part that dreams, that part that plays, that part that laughs, the part that stares at the stars in wonder, and the part that loves to play with puzzles even before I know an answer can be found.

Had I gone crazy? Perhaps. 

But what I saw in that moment was it hasn’t been reason, but fear and shame which have been setting the terms on the possible solutions I’ve explored. And in only consulting with them, I’ve been cutting myself off from so many other parts of myself (like creativity and trust) which might have helped me find different ways to go. 

In this, I’m not saying that fear is bad and should always be overcome. Fear can protect me from many dangers and reckless selfish decisions; but it alone cannot be a source of creativity, imagination, or connection. Healthy expressions of those are only possible when fear is but one (and not the only) of the perspectives which I consult. 

So, did this moment of laughter and epiphany immediately solve all of my questions? Of course not. I still feel very much in the work, but with my vision freed I do see it a new light: 

“Am I doing the right thing? Has the journey taught me all it’s meant to? Am I fully taking advantage of the unique opportunities before me? What would it mean for me to finish this well? What would ensure this period of my life really meant something?” 

These are not just question about my “sabbatical” (or walkabout as I’m now thinking about it)– these are the fundamental questions of what it means to live a good life. 

Perhaps that insight should have made the contemplation of them weightier, but instead, I’m finding freedom in it. I know there is no perfect life or way to navigate it. Why did I think it’d be different for this journey? Seeing this, I feel freed to move back into action knowing that my choices will be imperfect. Moreover, I’m seeing it as a gift: a chance to provisionally answer the big life questions by testing hypotheses about them in this context. In this light, the more mistakes I make, the more I can learn, and the greater my chance of living a life I feel satisfied with when it’s done. The only wrong paths are those which will give me no new data, like choosing to stay in my head, treading old paths that brought me misery, or drifting along without intention.

Seeing the remainder of my journey this way (as a metaphor for life itself) has also freed me to feel more at peace with its eventual end. The question for me now isn’t should I fear what’s next, or can I stretch it out forever, but rather, knowing it will end, how do I want to spend my energy in the time I have left? 

And here is my provisional answer: with intention in all I do, a heart full of gratitude, prioritizing my creativity, willingness to make and learn from my mistakes, space to experience new things, surrounded by beauty, and connected in love to others as they are (not as I want them to be). 

What does this have to do with my walkabout, and what might it look like specifically, you ask?   

For now, I’ve decided it means publicly affirming my goal of seeing ALL 62 US national parks. I do not believe that checking each park off the list is what will make the journey worthwhile, but I do believe that the organizing frame of it will bring me to places I wouldn’t otherwise explore, and that it creates a container in which I can live out the values I’m trying to embody in novel ways. It also means I’m setting a deadline on myself to complete this work by summer’s end. By limiting the amount of time I’m giving myself, I believe it will encourage me to get out of the drift, and be more intentional in how I use this time. Once I’ve seen them all, I will write a book about the journey and sell my photographs. And lastly, while I plan to continue to invest in businesses for myself (as my former jobs trained me to do), I plan shift my vocational focus toward helping others grow, most likely by first pursuing a graduate degree in psychology or holistic counseling.

Will this be exactly how my future plays out? Of course not. Already in the week since this plan began to coalesce I see how the corona virus’ spread could make it potentially impossible for me to see many of my remaining parks in my desired time frame. But who knows what next week will bring.  

So what’s next? Stepping into that uncertainty, with conviction about my principles, and assurance that things won’t play out exactly as I imagine … that’s what’s next.

Note: all images in this post are from Saguaro National Park in Tucson, Arizona and were taken in January of 2020.

Talking to Strangers - a Vignette

“Young man! Young man!” 

It was 9am, and I was in a motel in the middle of nowhere New Mexico. I was exhausted and lost in my thoughts, but the woman’s voice – so insistent and unexpected – made me come to. What did she say? I thought. I looked around the room, and realized I was the only person there except for a single woman many tables away. She was un-mistakeably speaking to me. I looked at her more closely. She looked like a normal enough retiree, the kind of person I’m used to seeing anytime I stop at a motel or diner in the middle of nowhere. She wore long gray hair (neatly combed), had deep wrinkles across her forehead and neck (from many years in the sun), held her weight over a pair of broad shoulders, and was wearing a completely forgettable outfit that you might expect to see on the cover of some AAA or AARP magazine.  

“Young man.” She said again, now more softly that she’d caught my eye. 

Before I could say a word, she got up, walked to me, and sat down in a chair right at the table next to me asked: “Would you help me with a little thing?”

I had a six-hour drive ahead of me to meet my high school friend Andrew outside of Tucson, and I was already running late. I wanted to get going, but figured this would only set me back a few seconds, so I said: “Of course.” 

“Oh, bless your heart. Thank you. You see, I need to set up an email account, and I just don’t even know.”

“Wait, what?”

“I just don’t understand technology. It’s complicated.”

I must have been staring at her blankly, dumbly. 

She went on: “I need to get home and feed my dogs.”

Excuse me? What did she want again, I tried to remember.

A second went by, she kept looking at me. I couldn’t see the connection.  

“Oh!” I said, eureka, “there’s a number for taxis by the front desk. I saw it there last night. You should go over there and call them.”

Problem solved! I thought.

“But I don’t have any money.”

“Do you have a credit card?”

“Oh yes – but you know how it is here. Cabs just take cash here. I don’t have any”

I thought about reaching into my wallet to give her some so I could get away.

“The woman at the desk told me I can call a cab with my phone, but I need an email, and well, you know, technology, this world is so complicated these days, I can’t figure it out at all. I can’t figure out email. So I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?”

I looked at her closely. A series of uncharitable thoughts flew through my mind. Was she homeless and looking for money? No, I looked at her clothes. They were clean, ready for that AARP shoot. I looked at her teeth -- all intact. I smelled for signs of alcohol. None. I looked into her eyes – they didn’t look dilated. 

Maybe she’s just a clueless old woman, I thought. But how do you survive today without an email address? She must really need help. “Can I see your phone?” I asked. She handed me her Android. 

I opened up the browser “Let’s try to google it together.” I suggested. 

“What’s that?”

I looked at her again. Is she joking?

I said out loud as I typed it into Google, “How -- do – you -- set up – an – email --  account,” She didn’t seem particularly interested despite my live narration of my internet actions. “Click the top link.” “This is Gmail.” “Follow the link to ‘set-up an account.’” 

I finally got her to a page where she had to put in her personal information. “I think you’ve got it from here.” I said cheerily.

I handed the phone back to her and tried again to finish my breakfast. I was relieved when I saw her typing and thought perhaps the conversation was nearing an end, but a moment later I heard her huffing: “Why does it want to know my age?”

“It’s okay” I assured her. “It just wants to know you aren’t a minor. You can put in something fake if you want, but only if you’ll remember it.” She took the phone back. I was shocked to see input a date that suggested she was in her late 50s.

A moment later more huffing: “It says my password won’t work! Can you do it for me?” 

I looked over her shoulder and saw her name was “Linda”, and that Google wanted her to make a more complicated password. 

“Just type it in again, and add some numbers on the end.” I suggested.

“Oh I can’t think of anything complicated.” She signed loudly as if home from a long day.

“Maybe put your dog’s names plus a number?” I suggested

“Oh, thank you! Bless your heart.”

I went back to my waffle. 

A moment passed, she was still staring at the screen, then I saw her pressing the screen over and over: “It won’t let me confirm my password!”

I looked over her shoulder. “Maybe you typed it in wrong the second time.”

“The second time?”

Instead of entering her password a second time, she was pressing place where she being prompted to “confirm password” over and over. 

“Um… why don’t you try typing your password in there.” 

“Oh my! Sometimes I think I’m just not meant for this world.” she sighed.

When the confirmation page loaded, she yipped. “Oh! It worked! I have an email now! Thank you! I can get home now.”

“Okay, well now you should be set. Just go ahead and order your uber.” I waved as if to signal, good luck, I’m done here. I tried, again, to turn my full attention back to my half eaten, and increasingly cold waffle.

“How do I do that?” she asked the top of my head. 

I signed, pushed away my waffle and grabbed the phone back. Of course, there was no Uber App on her phone. How had she known she needed an email? I wondered. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to see this thing through now. I went her app store and tried to download it, but when I did I saw it required her to first log in to her google account. 

I handed the phone back to her and said, “Almost there! Just need to re-input your username and password that we just created”

She looked at me, and back at the phone, “Oh no, I don’t know if I remember!”

Are you freaking kidding me? I wanted to yell. But instead, I kept my cool, and said in my most zen like voice: “Hmm, remember it’s your dog’s name?”

“Oh yes!” she called out. But despite repeated attempts to type in her dog’s name. It didn’t work. 

I grabbed the phone back and began the process to recover her password. 

“Can I ask you a question.” She suddenly asked.

 “Umm… sure…” 

She looked down at my hand, and pointed to a dark raised dot on the crease between my right thumb and pointer finger. “How did you get that?”

I looked. The truth was I’d seen it for the first time after I’d woken up while camping in the desert two nights before. I had no idea how it got there. “I don’t know actually.” 

She looked at me conspiratorially

“Would you think I was strange if I told you something?” 

Too late… I thought. 

“I got them once too! And I also had no idea where I got them from. You and I are so alike.”

Wait, what?

“It was a few years ago, when I was still with my ex-husband. He was in the air force. Lots of weird things happen with the air force here in New Meixco, you know...” she trailed off. “Well, one day, I was out in my garden in the middle of the day, and then next thing I knew I was inside and it was dark. I don’t know how. And it was at least 4 hours later. That time was just gone. I wasn’t drinking or anything. It was just like I time traveled. So, I went to the bathroom, and I looked in the mirror and I had those same black dots on me just where yours is!” 

What is the right and polite thing to say here, I wondered. 

While I was contemplating that, she went on: “So, I went to my reiki guru, and you know what she told me?”

“No…?”

“Aliens!”

“Right… that makes sense.” 

“I know! Right? There’s a lot of weird things out here the desert.”

“You don’t say…”

Once we were armed with her new username and password, I went to download Uber, only to discover the internet signal was so, so slow that I soon realized there was going to be no quick escape 

My waffle was now most definitely cold. Do I still eat it I wondered? Should I just throw it away? 

“Oh my goodness. Where are my manners?” ‘Linda’ jumped in: “I never introduced myself. I’m Dionne.”

Wait, what? I wanted to say. I gave her my hand and may have mumbled: “good to meet you.”

She went on: “Who are you? Where are you from?”

Should I answer those questions? I wondered. But something in my Midwest upbringing compelled me forward, and before I knew it I was stammering out, quietly, almost in a whisper: “Tim … from Minnesota.” 

“Oh my goodness!” she excitedly yelped, seemingly oblivious to my body language. “I once dated the quarterback of the Minnesota Vikings when I lived in San Antonio!”

I looked at the phone – Uber was less than 10% downloaded.

“It was a long time ago, when Red McCombs owned the team and so the players used to come down and visit Texas all the time. I didn’t know he was the quarterback of course.”

I probably cocked my head. I actually knew that was true, and it was surprisingly specific. Was she telling the truth?

“He was a gentleman.”

I couldn’t help myself: “Hmm, that’s not a word I think of that often when I think about professional football players. But I guess you never really know what people are like from afar...”

“I know, but he wasn’t like that. He was so handsome and kind. I worked in a nice restaurant then. But this was so long ago, back when I was beautiful. Like my daughter looks now.

“He kept coming back to my restaurant. Never pushy or handsy, but we used to talk all the time. We never even kissed or anything. One day, the other girls pulled me aside and said, ‘Do you even know he is? How come he likes you when you don’t even care about sports! He’s a star.’ But of course, I didn’t know who he was. Actually, when I found it out, that made me scared.” 

“Scared?”

“Next time I saw him, I asked him straight up, ‘Do you have a wife?’ And he didn’t deny it. He was real calm, and just said ‘yes.’

“Oh no!” I imagined what it must have been like for her. “Men... So, he just wanted a second girlfriend while he was away?”

“No. He told me he wanted to be with me not her.”

I almost choked, wait, what? I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I held my tongue.

She went on: “I told him I wasn’t interested. But he didn’t give up. He came back, with a dozen roses and a credit card. I told him I didn’t want anything. I threw the card at him.” 

I looked at her silently, imagining her 30 years ago, the excitement of the attention, the dreams she must have had, the way they’d been pulled away from her. How much did that gesture mean to her now? When she thought of him, what did she first see? When she thought of his face, was it the look of when he wooed her or when she threw the card away?  

“He got that card off the ground and tried to put it in my hand. He told me to keep it. I told him to leave. He said I didn’t owe him anything. Just keep it.” 

“I didn’t want his money.” 

She trailed off into thought. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be installing her Uber.

Many, many minutes later – when we’d finally got her app up and running, after I’d input her credit card information and found the card contained a third name, neither Linda or Dionne, I asked her to tell me the address of where she wanted to go.

“Oh, can’t I just tell the driver?” she asked.

“No, you need to input it here. Maybe you want to put in your home address?”

“Just have them take me downtown.”

I wanted to ask about her dogs, but decided better not.

“Where downtown? I need an address.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere on Main Street.”

“I need an intersection at least… please”

“Well there’s an artist gallery there I really like.”

And so it went…

When I finally got called the Uber from her phone, and got her to the lobby door, it was almost 10am. I never got to finish that waffle.

As we stood there, I watched two obviously homeless men walk through the parking lot, their clothes full of holes, their hair turning to dreads, their look wild. I looked back at Linda, or Dionne, or whoever she might be in her neat clothes and combed hair. The world is strange I thought.

It was then that I also first noticed she didn’t have anything with her except her purse. No suitcases, no toiletries. I almost laughed. Why was she at the motel in the middle of nowhere? How did she look so clean and put together without any things to get ready in the morning? How had she even gotten there in the first place? What was her name, actually? Who was this woman!?

When the driver arrived in a Toyota Camry, I looked at the plates and told her it was her ride. She turned, looked back at me, and gave me a smile. “Goodbye, Tim from Minnesota. I need a new phone. Thank you.” She gave me a hug, and got in the car. 

As she closed the door, I saw her lean toward the driver and heard her say:

“Hello young man! Can I ask you something?” 

Hearing Nothing

I saw the body flying through the air. I didn’t realize it was a body at first. I didn’t know what it was. It all happened so fast. But as it fell, I saw clearly it was a man. And I saw his back, then the head, hit pavement. Bodies aren’t supposed to make that sound. I knew immediately, even before I saw the pool of blood, he was dead.

That night, even before I went to sleep, I saw the man – I saw his clothes, the tattoos on his arms, his face. In my dreams it was there again. Who was he? Why was he there? Why didn’t the driver on the other side of the road stop before he hit him?

I had to drive south the next morning. The first hour was pouring rain. I clenched the steering wheel so hard my forearms hurt. I-35 in Texas felt like a nightmare. No shoulders. Construction everywhere. Electronic flashing signs every few miles: “Don’t be a statistic. Deaths on Texas roads this year: 2,871.” Thanks for the real time update Texas - Fuck you. Nothing makes people safer than reminding them to be fearful.

I called my friend who’d seen it too. She told me she’d wept that morning when she got into her car.

~~~

It’s been two weeks since I saw that unknown man die. In time, I stopped seeing the body. Often, I forget it happened. I wonder, is it because I never saw him alive? Is it because I only saw it all through my windshield? Or perhaps it’s because I’ve stayed so busy.

Since, I’ve spent a lot of time with some of my dearest friends. I’ve gotten far away from the highways deep into the Chihuahuan Desert, Chisos Mountains, and the Guadeloupe Range. I’ve been with people nonstop. I’ve stayed up into the night to photograph the moon rise over the desert. I’ve spent full days climbing arid peaks. I’ve had so many of the things that life has to offer, solitude and silence being two key exceptions. 

But I’m alone again. And this morning I found myself buried 750 feet below the New Mexico desert in the Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

Carlsbad is a strange place for North America’s largest accessible cave system. There is nothing above the ground that would indicate to a non-scientific eye that there should be countless miles of passageways below. From above, the top of the butte gently swells and rolls to the north and west. The ground seems more than solid underfoot. There are not legions of dark holes into which one might climb. To the east and south an immense vista of flatness stretches to the horizon -- dirt, rubble, cholla, yucca, other cacti, and a solitary highway as far as the eye can see. If you squint you can see the fires coming from the fracking wells. Other truths lie on the landscape too - invisible to the human eye. They say we used to test nuclear bombs just 30 miles from here. Does radiation still cling unseen to the rocks in the parks?

But, I didn’t come here for what’s above the surface. It’s that huge fissure in the earth that drew me. And as I approached it, my eyes looked down into the hole - switchbacks that disappeared into the below.

As I descended, I wondered what madness possessed the first explorers more than 100 years ago, before walkie talkies, electric lights, and automatic pulleys to climb miles and miles into unknown, unlit chambers below the earth. Looking at the rock, its grade, its wetness, its shape – I imagined what it’d be like climb before there were trails. How easy it must have been to fall to places unseen, how easy to become lost. And if you did – what horrors then? What would it be like to starve to death in the pitch black? 

I walked briskly until I’d gone so far down I could no longer see any of the natural light above. I was not afraid. I wanted to be still. Absolutely still. There was no sound, save the drip, drip, drip of unseen water into unseen pools. 

There were faint noises further up toward the entrance of the cave. Probably the six school buses of children I saw on my drive in. Better keep moving. But I couldn’t go fast. I took a step, then stopped, lingering to look at the ornate details, like filigree on the columns of stalagmites that stretched from the cave’s ceiling to its floor. Then I’d take another step only to linger more before a vein of sparkling calcite. I forgot about hurrying. 

They began to catch up. I expected a horde, but instead at first I saw only a teacher and 10 middle school aged girls. Further back, I could hear more of them. But this first group was quiet-ish. When they spoke and giggled, they did so in respectful, hushed whispers. I let them pass. But a few minutes later I caught up, and passed them again. 

I wondered if I should rush ahead to stay ahead of the noise. I was so enjoying the stillness before they came. It nourished me in ways I didn’t understand. I wanted more. I so dreaded the others who I knew followed behind them. 

I tried this for a while - trying to rush toward stillness. 

But then I paused. A huge cavern had opened up before me. It looked as though the ceiling were a hundred feet above my head. I set up my tripod. I fiddled with the settings.

I heard them before I saw them. It wasn’t words, but one voice, whimpering. I imagined what the girl must be feeling as she climbed ever deeper into the earth, away from the surface and the natural light. I heard her sniffle. I turned, and watched them come toward me. I saw the crying girl. One of her classmates was holding her hand, a second one had her in a loose embrace. 

“It’ll be okay, Justice” one said. “Don’t cry,” said a second.

As they walked by me, other girls pressed close too. The whole group stopped, and surrounded the girl in a large embrace.  

They made loving sounds. A few girls began to giggle, one called out: “Oh Justice - there’s nothing to cry about!” Another laughing: “We can’t take you anywhere!” A third: “Oh Justice, we love you.” 

The teacher wordlessly caught my eye, and smiled, her face saying: “Do you see? How could I not be happy in a world that has this?”

They walked on, disappearing around a corner, echoes of loving whispers and warm laughter still reaching back to me from the darkness. 

But my reverie was short lived. At first it was a titter, then an indistinct din, a cacophony of many voices echoing through the chamber – unmistakably teenage boys. As they got closer I could hear specific conversations - perhaps something about Batman, football, definitely girls, a few pretend farts, machismo claims about their lack of fear - shushing every now and then as well.

I wondered why couldn’t they be quiet, like the others? Why don’t the teachers control them? Why it so hard for so many people to be quiet? Is it play, or a deflection for their fears? If so, of what? Of monsters in the dark? Of silence? Does the darkness, and these depths, make them think of dying, or the dead? Or perhaps, is it the monsters lurking in their minds, images that only surface when no one speaks, that they are trying to keep at bay behind their idle chatter?

Of course now it’s so obvious - the questions were as much directed at me as them. But in that moment, I didn’t see that yet.

Groups of 10 began to pass me one by one. I tried to ignore them, to focus on my photography. But the path was too narrow. Kids kept bumping into my tripod. I gave up and walked slowly, close to edge, so they could pass. How long would this go on? Six school buses hold a lot of noise and hormones.

I tried to enjoy the majesty of the caves, but I saw nothing, my mouth may not have moved, but my mind was racing as I walked up. First it was consumed with the boys, then the impeachment hearing, later other frustrations happening above the surface. I saw a sign and stopped to read it. It said that in the 1920s the Caverns first became a national attraction. Then, there were no elevators or paved paths. Tours used to take 5 hours but today they’ve cut the time in half! (Yes, there was an exclamation point on the sign). Is that a good thing? I wondered.

I kept walking toward the great room. Suddenly I realized I was alone. All of them must have passed. It was silent again. I hadn’t even noticed. How long had it been still? This was very thing I’d said I wanted to run to – what took me so long to notice it’d arrived?

I stood motionless and held my breath. I wanted to hear nothing. But instead of nothing I heard the blood pulsing through my veins.

I breathed again, and found my eyes had filled with tears. My throat tighten. It was hard to breathe deeply. For the first time in a long time. I saw the body. Yes, that had happened. It wasn’t a dream.

Even as I saw him, I felt held by caves and within the silence. Here I’d found a place both contained and also more expansive than I could imagine.

I realized what the whimpering girl must have known - that there was 750 feet of heavy rock above my head and miles trail I’d have to climb to get back to the surface. If the walls shook I would certainly die. Still I did not feel afraid.

I’m not sure how long I sat there. I know many other people walked by. The children looped back at one point but it was as if they were far away. I knew they were there but I didn’t hear their words anymore.

Slowly I found both the sadness and the image of the man began to fade from my mind, in its place I found a chasm had opened up inside me, and I felt the cave all around rushing it.

The silence said: do not be afraid, you are alive, give thanks.

Looking within, I found the darkness had begun to take shape and color — deep reservoirs of gratitude abounding where sadness and resentment had prevailed only a moment before.

I felt gratitude for the absurdity of being able to stand 750 feet below the earth. Gratitude that I’m a citizen of a country which chose to preserve so many of its most beautiful places before I was born. Gratitude for the other worldly beauty of the caves. Gratitude for my health and the ability to walk through them on my own legs. Gratitude to learn from the noise of those boys – and realize how my mind is often just as loud. Gratitude to witness the tenderness of those girls for their friend. Gratitude to be free and able to go on this journey. Gratitude for the strangers who I’ve met on this journey, many of whom have changed my life. Gratitude for the friends and family who’ve supported me when I was afraid. And too, gratitude for the air in my lungs and the blood still pumping through my veins.

Hearing nothing in the cave but the beating of my heart, I felt so fiercely the truth of my pulse. There is always much to mourn; but as long as I breathe, I must also give thanks.

It is a most strange, unfair, beautiful, and miraculous thing to be alive.

Consumed with Complaints

I didn’t like the guy. I didn’t like the look of him. I didn’t like the way he was talking to other people. I even didn’t like way he was sipping his coffee. 

I was sitting in a coffee shop in Springdale, Utah – outside the entrance to Zion National Park. It was raining. And not one of those cute rains that you’ll see couples holding hands in, swinging their arms, and lovingly looking into each other’s eyes while saying things like, “Oh how delightful,” or, “The world is so enchanted.” No, this was one of those rains where couples un-grip each other’s hands to shield their eyes as they squint while scurrying to the nearest cover. 

I was at doorstep of one of the most beautiful parks in America, and I was stuck inside, consumed with anger for Mr. Patagonia wearing, privilege drenched, climber, latte sipping, strategically placed but unopened journal, pen, and thick pretentious looking novel dude –  listening to him say things to the string of women and men that talked to him like: “Oh this book? Yah… It’s long isn’t it? I mean, I don’t read fiction very often, except for Booker Mann Prize winners.” Or: “It’s hard on rainy days when you live in a van -- even a nice one like mine -- but it’s part of the life style,” or “Me and Amanda, well really it was me, but Amanda came along, I guess, anyway, yes, I broke the record last year for the fastest climb ever of something indiscernible in six … no five …  or was it four hours?”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed up my stuff, went back to the hotel, curled up in bed, and put on a movie, even though it was 2pm on a weekday. Maybe some “me time” was the cure for this malaise.

Or maybe not. Watching the movie, I couldn’t rest. A thought kept nagging at me. Why had that guy bothered me so much? 

Earlier this year, I learned a new way for thinking about complaints. Rather than analyzing if they are true, I should try to think about what “goodies” they are giving me. The theory is that if it didn’t somehow feel good to complain, I’d be able to let it go. So, I asked myself, what were my complaints about the coffee shop guy getting me? 

That morning, even before I got to the shop, I was feeling a bit lost and wracked with doubt.“Where is this journey headed?”I wondered.“Is this still a good use of my time?” “Have I gotten everything out of this that I should?” “Am I still affirming my values or just running away from life now?” Seeing the coffee shop dude, and complaining about him, helped me avoid grappling with those questions. Instead, I was spending my energy finding points of comparison on how I was better than him. “I may be lost, but at least I’m not that guy!”

But on deeper level, I felt lonely. Yes, traveling alone has opened up so much for me as I’ve written about before. Yes, I love getting emails, texts, and calls from friends and family far away. Yes, I am learning to find sufficiency in myself. But I don’t aspire for just self-sufficiency in my life. I aspire to have a life grounded in confidence in my own worth, AND ALSO defined by lived connection with others. Life is undoubtedly richer when experienced within a loving community. The truth is, as much as I need to do it for myself right now, traveling and sleeping alone day after day can be very lonely.  

So, turning back to my coffee shop man, and seeing him (him of all people!) seemingly making connections so easily while I was feeling alone hurt. Demonizing him was helping me justify my own sense of isolation, and my decision not to be more proactive in combating it. “If that’s who I have to be to connect with others, I don’t want any part of it!” or “If that’s who these people are, I’m better off being alone!”

Once I’d identified why it was so pleasurable to complain about him, I tried to think about what that complaint was costing me.  

First, it was costing me my power. Specifically, it was costing me my power to choose the course of my afternoon and my life. As I mentioned, I’d identified several crucial fears about this journey. Getting answers to those questions will fundamentally change how I choose to spend the next months of my life. And yet, instead of grappling with them, I was letting myself get carried downstream in non-action and judgment of someone who should have had no control over my life.  

Second, it was making me feel physically ill. One of my insights about myself this winter was that when I think negative thoughts about other people, or when I compare myself to other’s success, the costs to me are both psychic and bodily. This time was no different. I realized that despite the rain I’d gone into the shop feeling happy, but I left feeling angry about the rain, physically exhausted, and my head throbbed. 

Third, it was preventing me from having the opportunity to fight my loneliness and potentially connect with anyone else at the coffee shop. I was so busy justifying why I was alone, that I didn’t see that I was playing a big part in that. After all, who is going to come and introduce themselves to the guy in corner judging everyone? Or, how likely am I to take initiative and introduce myself to a stranger who I am thinking negative thoughts about?

My mother used to tell me, “You can learn something from everyone.” I always thought that was one of those annoying mom-isms. But on this journey, again and again I’m learning how true it actually is. 

Here was a man who was on his own journey. Like me, he looked like he’d once been a yuppy but left that world (but not the uniform) behind. Like me, something about the west had deeply resonated with him, and he’d clearly spent months of his life exploring it. He had probably grappled with many of the same questions I was struggling with now. It’s very possible that I would have disagreed with all of his conclusions, but think how much I could have learned hearing him talk about how he made them. Moreover, think of the wealth of knowledge he must have had on places to see, people to meet, experiences to have in this part of the world.

For all I know God (or the Universe, or whatever your worldview is), may have actually put this man in my path. But instead of following the nudging of the universe, I separated myself from him, observed him like a scientific specimen, dissected his faults, and ensured that we never spoke. 

Despite that personal failure, the more I thought about it, the funnier I found the whole situation. For goodness sake, on a superficial level people might have mistaken me for him. I can imagine an exchange between two strangers that observed us both going something like this: “Oh honey, did you see the clean shaven, non-bohemian 30 something dude, wearing a Patagonia jacket, and boldly pronouncing to the world he wasn’t working so he could explore the west and climb mountains during the week…” “Which one, honey? The one in corner in the blue jacket or the one in the other corner in the green jacket?” 

The last step of analyzing complaints is to ask: Now that I know my real need, the need that made complaining so satisfying, can I let the complaint go? Can I take my power back, and take charge of fulfilling my needs directly?

I scrawled in my journal: “Stay with work. Don’t be a victim to loneliness. Take initiative. Don’t judge. Only connect!”

So, I thought, how can I change the course of today? What small act can I do now to take back my power?

A thought came to me immediately, find a yoga class, introduce yourself to some strangers. So, I opened up google and searched for a yoga class. As I scrolled through, my eyes did a double take, there was a studio forty minutes away that was affiliated with Baptiste Yoga (the type of yoga I got certified to teach in). I called the number listed. A woman answered and said there was a class in an hour. 

The studio was beautiful. Nestled into the back of a small mountain ridge, attached to the owner’s home, up an outside staircase, across a patio, and into a sun-drenched, high ceilinged, space for 12. Andrea, the owner, warmly welcomed me with a wave from atop her perch on the patio as I drove in. I was the first person there. But only a moment later, and to my shock, two women from my teaching training appeared!

And not just any two people. One of them, Ronda, had been one of the most impactful people for me in my training in February. We had completed an exercise together where we had to stand in silence and look into each other’s eyes for somewhere between 15 to 20 minutes. (I will spare you the details of why it was so impactful until a later post). But for now, let me just say, I had no idea she lived in Utah, and I never thought I’d see her again. 

Beyond the sheer joy I felt unexpectedly seeing Ronda and Tara again, I loved everything about my afternoon at the yoga studio. The practice was physically demanding, and was an affirmation of community. Andrea’s style of teaching made me feel so connected with everyone else there, despite the fact we were all finding different expressions of each posture. We breathed in unison. She asked us to share our feelings with the whole room at different points. And lest you think this was some exercise in forced positivity, it wasn’t. I was struck when one man at the beginning told everyone he didn’t want to be there, and that he was feeling “somber.” At other times, Andrea let the whole class know when someone had made a breakthrough, and everyone cheered for them. However, my favorite moment was near the end of class when Andrea read a provocative quote and asked everyone (one by one) what they thought it might mean. When she asked me I was upside down in shoulder stand. Given this, I had trouble getting my answer out. So she asked me to repeat myself, twice. Perhaps at another time I would have found this frustrating. But that moment, and in that state, it made me laugh.

By the end of class every face was glowing, even the man who’d come in feeling somber. And after class nearly everyone stayed outside on the patio to talk, laugh, and share their lives. Some people (like me) for over an hour.

The whole experience felt like such an affirmation of my insights from earlier in the day. “Stay with work. Don’t be a victim to loneliness. Take initiative. Don’t judge. Only connect!”

Yes, more of this in my own life, I thought.

As I drove the forty minutes back to my hotel I felt so full – full of energy, full of joy, full of community, and full of life. What a transformation from my drive back to the hotel earlier that day.

And I thought, I’m so thankful that I saw that man in the coffeeshop. Mom was right (even without talking to him) he sure did have a lot to teach me. 

~~~

Post script – if you are enjoying these posts, I’d love to hear what is resonating with you. Just send me a note or post a comment directly onto the website. And if you think someone else would enjoy them, please consider inviting them to read along as well. It’s been such a joy to share this journey with a growing community of old friends, new friends I’m meeting on the road, and strangers who have decided to follow-on too.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

A reflection on learning to confront my fears of being alone, realizing I need to love myself before I can accept anyone else’s love, and finding joy in making my own path — all in the The Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado (continue reading below…)

The full moon rising over the Sangre De Cristos and lighting up the dunes. Taken at F4, ISO 200, 8 sec.

During my Baptiste Training I discovered that deep down I believed (and feared) that I will never be worthy of love. Ironically, my fear became a self-fulfilling prophesy. The more I was afraid, the harder I sought out affirmations from people who I thought “mattered”. Yet, the more mental energy I put into getting others’ affirmation the more depressed and isolated I felt! As long as I believed that I needed others’ affirmations, the more impossible it was for me to actually experience true love or friendship. If someone liked me, I worried it was because I had fooled them (and if they knew the truth they’d stop respecting me). Or, if they didn’t, I would internalize the rejection and use it to affirm my insecurities. Opening the aperture even further, this belief prevented me from living life on my own terms. I believed that to be loved meant only taking certain jobs or behaving in certain ways. If there was a prestigious well-worn trail in front of me, I felt like I had no choice. I had to climb it.

A line of hikers all climbing up the High Dune on the same path

Now I see that I’d been in a prison of my own making. If I truly love myself, not for who I project to be, but who I actually am, then I don’t need to be afraid of being alone. I am enough. And paradoxically, the more truly confident I am (including owning my failings and fears), the more easily I connect with total strangers and loved ones alike! When I exude pride in what I’m doing, look people in the eye, and care about them for them (not so I can get affirmed for caring!) – I’ve been having some of the most surprising and beautiful encounters of my entire life.

My two days in the Great Sand Dunes National Park demonstrated this powerfully. On the first night, I climbed the “High Dune”, which is about 700 vertical feet of sand. When I got the top of the ridge I saw a man with a tripod. I made my way to him to talk about photography. I ended up talking to him (he was my age) and his parents (both recently retired from government service) for about two hours. We shared the stories of our lives as climbed from ridge to ridge trying to capture the changing light on the sand. 

Once the sun set the magic really started to happen. With the western sky still glowing near the horizon, the full super moon appeared first as a sliver, then a half circle, and finally hovered fully rounded above the peak of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains to the east. We gasped as the light began to fill the valleys of sand below our feet. Our fingers were numb at this point, but we kept adjusting our ISO and shutter speeds trying to capture the light. 

As we walked back toward the way down we ran into five other people who were watching the moon rise too. Before I even knew who they were I asked, “Who wants to howl at the moon?”. I counted down from three and we all bayed in unison until we fell into laughter. 

I wish I would have stayed at the top as the family I met walked down, but for a moment I felt the need to stick with them. But midway down, I realized that was the old me. I had had my time of beautiful connection with them, and I wanted to photograph the moon a little while longer. I bade them farewell and stayed alone on the dunes late into the night.

In the morning I discovered that the “High Dune” hike was actually the ONLY official hike open this time of year in the park. Not only that, but there were no open restaurants for lunch or dinner within 45 minutes. Why had I stayed an extra day I wondered? However, once I got over my need to do the “official” or “known” hike, I gave myself permission to just wander, and again that’s when magic happened for me.  

I drove my car as far I could on a dirt road, and then just started to hike not knowing where to. As I approached a creek at the base of the dunes I saw there was a dune in the distance that looked even taller than the High Dune. Unlike the High Dune which is hiked hundreds of times a day, there were no other footprints in the sand near the creek. So, I had to choose where to go and find my own way to get there. 

You can see the dune I climbed in the center of the photo. All you can see of it is its peak (lit up) rising above a ridge before it. It was ~700 vertical feet from the base of the dunes to the top.

What a perfect metaphor for this entire sabbatical! I could spend the rest of this trip doing it on other’s terms and going to all the famous places I’m supposed to go. Or, I can follow my intuition each day, wander toward unknown vistas, change course on a dime, and figure out by trial and error how to get to wherever I decide to aim. The first way would lead to a safe and beautiful trip. The latter is so much riskier – who knows what will happen. But, when it’s over, I will know I made my own path. 

Taken on my way down the hike - you can see both my footprints going up and coming back down the dunes in both the near ground and higher up in the background

Back at the dunes - my path (the one I created) was so steep at times I had to crawl and dig my hands into the sand to get up. But was it ever worth it! I’ve rarely felt such a sense of wonder and accomplishment upon getting to the peak. 

At the top I saw storms were coming. So, after just a few minutes I headed down. As I did the winds picked up violently. Sand was pelting my face and arms and getting into my eyes. And without warning it started to snow! I don’t know how to explain quite how strange it is to see swirling snow on top of a sand dune that gets to be over 140F in the summer. But there I was. Thankfully, the storm passed quickly, and as I approached the bottom the sun actually began to shine!

As I descended, I felt a great sense of pride following my footsteps in the sand back down. Here was visual evidence that I had made this path. Not only had it brought me joy to make, but now it was helping me descend safely (and perhaps would guide some future hiker too).  

I was entirely alone for this hike. I envisioned it on my own. I figured it out the path on my own. I climbed it alone. In the past I think I would have come down the from the mountain lonely – believing it to not have mattered if it wasn’t shared. And, yes, of course, sharing it would have been beautiful. But that lack alone doesn’t invalidate the value of experience for me. I feel so much pride and joy at the way I discovered and completed this hike alone. Doing it is affirms for me yet again how I need to let go of my need to live life on other people’s terms, and instead embrace my own process of discovery - even though I don’t always know where I’m headed.

Petrified Forest National Park

The Petrified Forest is most surprising National Park I’ve visited yet. Below is the story of how I was forced to crawl to my car, made completely false assumptions about what I was seeing, realized I was wrong, and how the experience is making me reflect on my life more broadly. Read on below…

I was tired when I got to this park and the weather was awful. It was clear storms were near and as I entered my car was shaking the winds were so strong. Though it wasn’t raining yet, the wind alone made being outside feel like I was one of those weather reporters you see on TV giving the live updates on a nearing tropical storm as their clothes flap about this way and that. At one point when I opened my car door the door leapt out of my hand and slammed open the rest of the way so violently I was afraid it’d rip off. Later, determined to push ahead no matter what, I decided I’d go on a short 1 mile hike. I only got about 500 feet from my car. Afraid I would fall over, I had to drop to the ground and (literally!) crawl back to my car.

Despite that - the park was full of surprises - for instance, despite the name “Forest” in the title - it is in the middle of an arid desert. I saw only a handful of live trees in this entire park. The park covers 260 square miles, with a single 30 mile road running through it. There is almost no available hiking. And despite the name “Petrified Forest” - you don’t see a single petrified log until you are past halfway through the the drive. I drove through in about an hour (including stops).

I stopped at the museum at the end of the 30 mile road mostly because I had to use the bathroom. But - wow - am I ever glad I did! After spending 40 minutes in the musuem, I finally realized what I’d been looking at and got to see the petrified wood up close. The painted desert isn’t just “neat looking” - it is a visual record of our geological history, choke full of fossils of flora and fauna. Moreover, the different colors in the hills aren’t just beautiful - each layer is a record of MILLIONS of years of history. And the “scattered rocks” above the sand… that’s the petrified forest! When I’d been driving through the first time I’d been disappointed that there seemed to be so little of the forest left. Now I realized it had been all around me and I didn’t even realized it.

Behind the museum there is short trail (somewhat sheltered from the wind) that cuts between hundreds of petrified logs (some tens of feet long others barely stumps). The fact that the shapes of the petrified logs (which have been above ground and exposed to the elements for MILLIONS of years) are indistinguishable from a log fallen a year ago is incomprehensible to me. I loved getting near them and studying their shapes and colors.

This knowledge and experience changed everything about the park for me.

Rather than exiting onto the highway after finishing with the museum, I turned around and went backward, in order to drive the entire 30 mile road again. This time I went much, much more slowly, and saw everything in a new light. The decision immediately felt heavenly ordained when a rainbow spread across the sky.

As I left the park the whole experience got me thinking - how many times in my life have I rushed through something, believing myself to have “done it”, but actually having missed it? How many times have I’ve been so pleased with myself for the speed at which I arrived at my insight - seen true - but also completely missed what matters?

Every day of this trip I feel like the universe has been giving me an opportunity to confront my old stories and ways of being. In so doing, it’s giving me a choice - stay as I was, or change; hold onto my old beliefs, or let them go. For someone who is tempted by fear based decision making and wants to control - this is hard work! However, what I’m learning is that when I let go of my expectations, of my initial “insights”, of my need to control other’s perceptions of me, or my need to get to a conclusion quickly, and instead, simply sit with whomever (or whatever) I am with - and open myself to whatever they want to reveal - life is so much richer!

My 2019 Sabbatical - Reasons, Goals, Plans, and Early Learnings

Friends and family - I have exciting news! I’ve left my job and embarked on a year-long sabbatical. I feel energized, joyful, nervous, and hopeful for what lies ahead. I want to share with you my reasons, my goals, my tentative plans, and what I’ve learned so far. I also want to let you know how to best support me during this time. (Keep reading below…)

Reasons:

I’m more than a decade into my career, and I feel so grateful for the jobs I’ve had. I’ve learned so much, been challenged intellectually, and met so many brilliant colleagues, bosses, and leaders. The work has been rewarding in many ways, including equipping me to serve several non-profits I am passionate about, especially the Minnesota Orchestra. 

However, over Christmas when a friend asked me what I was hoping for in 2019 (both at work and more broadly) – I went blank. As I reflected, I realized I’d have been equally nonplussed if he’d asked me, “What are you hoping for in the rest of your life?” 

Why? Yes, 2017 and 2018 were full of setbacks. However, I thought I’d weathered them and responded with grit. When my two mentors quit at work, I doubled down, earned new responsibilities, higher pay, and a new title. When some of the most important relationships in my life fell apart, I was devastated, but I worked hard to make new friends. When my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer, I tried to make the best of it, and made sure to see her 1-2 times per week. When I felt my body and mind were getting weak from obsessing on work, I recommitted to piano lessons, running 15-20 miles every weekend, learning to rock climb, and reading several books per month. My CV for 2017-2018 was full, and these experiences helped me grow. However, as I reflect now, I realize my ways of thinking and being were the same as before – as were my goals, dreams, and fears. I was fundamentally the same person, just further along “the achievement path.” I was tired, but onwards I went – soldiering on, working hard to find and earn the next affirmation.

Until January -- everything changed. In the aftermath of it all, especially my grandmother’s death, a number of things became clear to me. One, I too will die. Even if it is decades away, it will come soon. Two, my “achievements” felt hollow. Three, at the deepest level I was not happy – not in general, and certainly not with myself. Four, I knew so many people wanted to care for me, and yet I felt trapped in my loneliness and isolation. Five, I was exhausted. Yes, I could probably keep on keeping on, but increasingly I was asking myself, “why bother?”. And lastly, I knew I should be overwhelmed with grief, but I felt emotionally deadened, and I couldn’t find any tears. 

These were not happy revelations. And initially I didn’t know what to do with them. Thankfully, a number of unexpected conversations (with strangers, friends I hadn’t spoken to in years, and mentors) changed that. In these conversations I learned many of their stories. In many of them there was a moment when the bottom dropped out and that person chose (or was forced to choose) to make a radical break from the path they had been on. For those that embraced the invitation to change – the person often ended up taking 6-12 months away from “life as usual”. Some explored new passions, some healed, others went deeper into their old passions in new ways. For all of them this “time-away” led them to re-examine themselves, dream new dreams, and try living differently than before. Some came back to their prior field, some moved on. All of them said the experience transformed them. 

Hearing these stories struck a chord for me, and immediately I knew that I needed to take a sabbatical. Moreover, I realized I have the time, health, resources, and lack any immediate responsibilities to do it now. So, I asked myself, if not now, when?

My Goals for the Sabbatical

I realize how rare this opportunity is, so I want to be intentional about how I am using this time. Below are the goals that have emerged for me. I am using this list to determine how to spend my time:

·     Heal: grieve what’s been lost, take responsibility for my mistakes, and regain my physical and emotional vitality 

·     Reflect: cultivate greater self-awareness and compassion for myself and others 

·     Explore (my passions and the world): say yes to activities that give me life and are different from what I was doing before in my work -- creatively, physically, spiritually, and intellectually 

·     Re-imagine: who I am and what is possible in my life

·     Discern: where I’m going next

What I’ve Done So Far and My Plan

· Winter: one day this winter my yoga teacher approached me and suggested I sign up for an intensive Level 1 teacher training with Barron Baptiste. Historically, I would have dismissed the idea outright (… the time, cost, impracticality, and I’d never heard of Barron!). However, something in my gut told me to “say yes”; also, as I analyzed it, it fit with so many of my 2019 goals (healing, reflecting, and exploring). The training was only a week away and I didn’t know if I could still sign up. I decided – why not try. So, I called asking to be let in. They said yes. So, I got a ticket and flew to Sedona days later. 

I’m so glad I did! It was the most transformational experience I’ve ever had. Taken together -- the meditation, inquiry, discussion, practice teaching, and asana practice --helped me to see patterns in my life that were invisible to me before. At the core of it, I realized that I have long believed that “I don’t deserve to be loved.” I see now that that story has been silently shaping my life choices, self-talk, and how I have been present with others my entire life. I also now understand why it’s been so hard for me to let this belief go and what it has cost me – including years of self-imposed loneliness, lack of pride at my accomplishments, broken relationships, unnecessary conflict, fear-based decisions, and alienation from people who wanted to support me. Seeing this was very painful at first. However, once I realized its absurdity, and that this doesn’t have to be my story anymore, everything shifted. That is who I was, it is not who I truly am. Who I truly am is caring, joyful, open, and confident. This realization has made me feel more empowered, energized, and joyful than any time I can remember. 

[I also came out of the training certified to teach yoga – so, if anyone wants a private yoga lesson I’d love to teach you :) ].

· Spring and Early Summer: As I brainstormed what projects to pursue next, my old dream of hiking every National Park and National Forest in the US kept coming back to me. The more I thought about it, the more it felt right. While on the road I will develop artistically (photographing and writing), intellectually (history, geology, ecology, biology, and environmental conservation), and physically (hiking, climbing, and camping). Doing it as a multi-month trip (similar to when I walked the Camino with my family) really appealed to me as well. When I move slowly and give ideas space to emerge I see the world in new ways – and that’s exactly what I want right now. Lastly being on the road for so long will change me in unexpected ways as I connect with old friends, meet new people, get lost, discover new paths, face unexpected danger, confront old fears, have time to reflect, and discover new vistas. I did a trail week on the road a few weeks ago, and now have fully committed to it after leaving Minnesota again earlier this week. 

· Late Summer and Fall: I realize that even in the next few months I may see only a portion of our National Parks. So, as the summer goes on I may continue with the project, or I may shift my focus entirely to something different – perhaps volunteering at a nonprofit or a presidential campaign, taking a long trip through Asia, or doing something I haven’t conceived of yet. I want to hold open the space to see what emerges and feels right as I transform.

How to Support Me During This Next Phase

·     If you live in the west: I hope to see you. 

·     If you have traveled in the west: recommendations for hikes, climbs, experiences, and people I should meetalong the way

·     If you consume social media: let me know what you think of my photographs and reflections. If you like what I post, please encourage others to follow my page

·     If you are religious: prayers for safety and discernment 

·     If you call, email, or text me: please be patient if I’m slow to respond

·     For everyone: if you ever went on a similar journey of self-discovery – I’d love to hear your story and how your adventure changed you

Conclusion

Joseph Campbell once wrote: “If you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it's not your path.” Before January, I imagined I could see the path I was on and its shape all the way to grave. Now that I’ve jumped off to make my own path, I don’t know what lies ahead – but here we go… thank you for walking beside me as I venture into this new, exciting and still unknown world of possibilities.