I went on my second yearly summer solo retreat about a month ago.
I take advantage of Waterton being a short drive away as often as I can, and at least once a year I like to go alone for a couple nights and go hiking, read, write, and indulge in craft beer and desserts I would not normally justify my spending money on.
I do not do this to "get away" from work and school, nor from the debts and responsibility that come with an adult life (though I do understand this urge in others). Typically, the emphasis is on my going solo every bit as it is on the grueling hikes and luxuries of pot roasts and expensive beer. I go on these retreats to meditate and to see a little bit of myself that I do not normally focus on in my every day life. Though I am very social by nature in the sense that I enjoy being part of a community, as a child I was always very solitary and it is important to me that the more introverted, private part of me isn't forgotten as I move on. I go partly to prove myself of many things; that I have a young healthy body capable of tough hikes, that I will not be lonely, that I can face fears, that that as much as I may deserve this lovely retreat I am also so privileged to have the opportunity.
The last night I was in Waterton I treated myself to a slice of key lime pie and a pint of Wild Rose's raspberry ale. It was delicious, naturally. But as I sat there eating and drinking, writing, enjoying the cool evening breeze and the euphoric relaxing sensation of sitting after a very challenging 8 hour hike up to Crypt Lake and back, I came to the realization that this waitress serving pie does not know what she has done for me.
I am so fortunate in this life to have the privilege of money to spend on such luxuries. As she hands me my food she is just doing her job and it probably never crossed her mind that she has made it possible for me to be this happy and relaxed right now.
I began to think about how connected we are in this world without even realizing it. Somewhere out there is a professor teaching my friends andhelping them learn more about what they love. Somewhere out there Jordan is being cast in a play and being given the opportunity to do what he loves and push himself. I was suddenly filled with the overwhelming desire to thank these people I have never met. Thank you, thank you! Thank you for what you do for people I love. They mean so much to me. Thank you. Somewhere out there is a musician that has inspired my boyfriend and unbeknownst to them, they have opened Kyle's world up. If they only knew the irreplaceable gift they have bestowed upon him, this magical element of inspiration...I wish there were a way for us all to see we matter in this world and that we can all step up and show gratitude just as easily as we can mark our place and help others. I want to shout out and embrace this musician for he has helped my boyfriend love himself through his own work and this is something bigger than he could even understand.
Somewhere out there is the doctor that will help deliver my sister's baby. Somewhere out there is a fellow Seahawks fan screaming in Quest Stadium with my father. Somewhere out there a director is creating a movie people will bond over and see that in those elaborate metaphors and fictional script there is a piece of themselves and all of us. Whether you are creating something or serving up key lime pie, you are throwing something in to this world greater than any feelings of isolation I had as a child. If I'd only known then what I did now.
Crypt lake was a difficult hike. I was prepared for the cardio portion where there were hours of steep switchbacks in the Twin Valleys and stretches in dense forest where rivers had to be crossed on rocks and streams leapt over unless you are the kind that don't mind wet feet (I am not this kind of person. Ever since my years working at Calaway Park as a teenager I cannot stand having wet feet). I was not prepared, however, for the portion of the hike that really challenged my will and bravery. There were many points in which the trail involved being close to cliffs or paying close attention to your footing should you by accident slip on loose gravel down in to the valleys, but these were situation I wasn't a stranger to. I was caught completely off guard by the cave and the traversing that followed, on the other hand. At one point after crawling though this claustrophobic cave we got to what appeared to be the end of the trail, but it took only a moment for me to realize that the rest of the hike wouldn't be a trail but instead demanded a reaching traverse on the side of a cliff, the steel cable being anywhere from chest height
to knee height on myself. It was a solid 4 minutes of terror, which is just long enough that about half way through I considered whether I'd made a terrible mistake. Ultimately I decided I couldn't turn back if an 80 year old man shaking from arthritis managed to cross right before me.
I got to the beautiful lake and enjoyed the bliss of my surroundings and ate what was perhaps the most rewarding lunch of my life at that point. And yet it only took 20 minutes to feel that urge to head back. I had plenty of time left to enjoy the lake, but something drew me back to that journey to the lake. That weekend I had decided to focus my meditative thoughts on the idea of impermanence and in that moment I was bought to one of many conclusions on the topic, this particular one concerning the nature of life, death, and the afterlife. Even if the hike to Crypt lake had drained me of energy and left my legs shaking from exhaustion, and even if I'd have to do that terrifying cliff all over again, something still stirred in me that convinced me to head back early. I was drawn, nonetheless, to the awe and drama I experienced on the way up. My body, having rested and been liberated by the feeling of that cold water over my feet, was ready to return. Even if I know I can stay longer and even if I know I am safe from pain, fear, and ambiguity at this lake still the journey is more rewarding. The way back to shore was absolutely brutal; everything hurt to a degree that I had never felt before, my lungs ached to the same caliber that my other muscles had, and my feet were throbbing and I stepped gingerly with a prayer through every step that I should make it home without debilitating blisters.
And yet, still, leaving that lake was euphoric knowing that I may never come back. I wonder if in death we are treated to the rest and beauty that is the afterlife, but still find ourselves eagerly plunging back to Earth.
I am doing a pilgrimage in 2 years. 40 days of walking and hiking through the rural Japenese island of Shikoku. I wonder if I should end each day exhausted and hurting and grateful for a warm foot bath and dinner, only to wake up even more grateful for the opportunity to keep walking.
I take advantage of Waterton being a short drive away as often as I can, and at least once a year I like to go alone for a couple nights and go hiking, read, write, and indulge in craft beer and desserts I would not normally justify my spending money on.
I do not do this to "get away" from work and school, nor from the debts and responsibility that come with an adult life (though I do understand this urge in others). Typically, the emphasis is on my going solo every bit as it is on the grueling hikes and luxuries of pot roasts and expensive beer. I go on these retreats to meditate and to see a little bit of myself that I do not normally focus on in my every day life. Though I am very social by nature in the sense that I enjoy being part of a community, as a child I was always very solitary and it is important to me that the more introverted, private part of me isn't forgotten as I move on. I go partly to prove myself of many things; that I have a young healthy body capable of tough hikes, that I will not be lonely, that I can face fears, that that as much as I may deserve this lovely retreat I am also so privileged to have the opportunity.
The last night I was in Waterton I treated myself to a slice of key lime pie and a pint of Wild Rose's raspberry ale. It was delicious, naturally. But as I sat there eating and drinking, writing, enjoying the cool evening breeze and the euphoric relaxing sensation of sitting after a very challenging 8 hour hike up to Crypt Lake and back, I came to the realization that this waitress serving pie does not know what she has done for me.I am so fortunate in this life to have the privilege of money to spend on such luxuries. As she hands me my food she is just doing her job and it probably never crossed her mind that she has made it possible for me to be this happy and relaxed right now.
I began to think about how connected we are in this world without even realizing it. Somewhere out there is a professor teaching my friends andhelping them learn more about what they love. Somewhere out there Jordan is being cast in a play and being given the opportunity to do what he loves and push himself. I was suddenly filled with the overwhelming desire to thank these people I have never met. Thank you, thank you! Thank you for what you do for people I love. They mean so much to me. Thank you. Somewhere out there is a musician that has inspired my boyfriend and unbeknownst to them, they have opened Kyle's world up. If they only knew the irreplaceable gift they have bestowed upon him, this magical element of inspiration...I wish there were a way for us all to see we matter in this world and that we can all step up and show gratitude just as easily as we can mark our place and help others. I want to shout out and embrace this musician for he has helped my boyfriend love himself through his own work and this is something bigger than he could even understand.
Somewhere out there is the doctor that will help deliver my sister's baby. Somewhere out there is a fellow Seahawks fan screaming in Quest Stadium with my father. Somewhere out there a director is creating a movie people will bond over and see that in those elaborate metaphors and fictional script there is a piece of themselves and all of us. Whether you are creating something or serving up key lime pie, you are throwing something in to this world greater than any feelings of isolation I had as a child. If I'd only known then what I did now.
Crypt lake was a difficult hike. I was prepared for the cardio portion where there were hours of steep switchbacks in the Twin Valleys and stretches in dense forest where rivers had to be crossed on rocks and streams leapt over unless you are the kind that don't mind wet feet (I am not this kind of person. Ever since my years working at Calaway Park as a teenager I cannot stand having wet feet). I was not prepared, however, for the portion of the hike that really challenged my will and bravery. There were many points in which the trail involved being close to cliffs or paying close attention to your footing should you by accident slip on loose gravel down in to the valleys, but these were situation I wasn't a stranger to. I was caught completely off guard by the cave and the traversing that followed, on the other hand. At one point after crawling though this claustrophobic cave we got to what appeared to be the end of the trail, but it took only a moment for me to realize that the rest of the hike wouldn't be a trail but instead demanded a reaching traverse on the side of a cliff, the steel cable being anywhere from chest height to knee height on myself. It was a solid 4 minutes of terror, which is just long enough that about half way through I considered whether I'd made a terrible mistake. Ultimately I decided I couldn't turn back if an 80 year old man shaking from arthritis managed to cross right before me.
I got to the beautiful lake and enjoyed the bliss of my surroundings and ate what was perhaps the most rewarding lunch of my life at that point. And yet it only took 20 minutes to feel that urge to head back. I had plenty of time left to enjoy the lake, but something drew me back to that journey to the lake. That weekend I had decided to focus my meditative thoughts on the idea of impermanence and in that moment I was bought to one of many conclusions on the topic, this particular one concerning the nature of life, death, and the afterlife. Even if the hike to Crypt lake had drained me of energy and left my legs shaking from exhaustion, and even if I'd have to do that terrifying cliff all over again, something still stirred in me that convinced me to head back early. I was drawn, nonetheless, to the awe and drama I experienced on the way up. My body, having rested and been liberated by the feeling of that cold water over my feet, was ready to return. Even if I know I can stay longer and even if I know I am safe from pain, fear, and ambiguity at this lake still the journey is more rewarding. The way back to shore was absolutely brutal; everything hurt to a degree that I had never felt before, my lungs ached to the same caliber that my other muscles had, and my feet were throbbing and I stepped gingerly with a prayer through every step that I should make it home without debilitating blisters.And yet, still, leaving that lake was euphoric knowing that I may never come back. I wonder if in death we are treated to the rest and beauty that is the afterlife, but still find ourselves eagerly plunging back to Earth.
I am doing a pilgrimage in 2 years. 40 days of walking and hiking through the rural Japenese island of Shikoku. I wonder if I should end each day exhausted and hurting and grateful for a warm foot bath and dinner, only to wake up even more grateful for the opportunity to keep walking.
Comments
Post a Comment