Bend October

I stood up at the river, turned my back on the Deschutes, went to pick up my backpack and the tears came instantly. They took me by surprise, yet they should not have as I had been crying intermittently all day. The last day of a momentous trip and the emotions overtook me. I turned back to face the river and allowed the tears to fall as I sobbed quietly. When they slowed I donned my sunglasses and backpack and walked along the gravel path back into downtown Bend, keeping the river on my left. Tears appeared at times as I walked along the path towards my final meal in Bend. I knew that as I walked I was leaving a piece of myself in Bend.

I shortly came upon the pedestrian bridge, my thoughts instantly drawn to the previous Saturday, and I walked on, yet a few steps later I turned, drawn back to stand on the bridge and look out over the river towards the mountains. I stepped on the wooden planks, uneven, studded with screws, and walked to the middle. The sun shone over my shoulder and I stood simply letting the tears gather. I knew I needed to mark that moment, and I recorded some videos, unsure of exactly what I wanted to say. I let the tears fall as I expressed my gratitude, my joy, and even my sorrow. 

Saturday, October 8th marked the completion of the first scouting hike of the American Perimeter Trail. My best friend, my business partner, and one of the most important people in my life walked the pedestrian bridge over the Deschutes River into Drake Park in Bend, OR completing a 3 year journey. As I watched him cross that bridge I smiled, I laughed, I cheered, and I was overwhelmed. With a smile, tears in his eyes and a swing of his flag he completed the loop. I thought I would cry, instead I smiled, we hugged, we laughed, and I was overwhelmed with it all. Another demarcation in my life, one of joy, sweetness, and a lot of dedication and work. A moment made possible by a simple connection on Instagram, an offer to help, and an acceptance.

The past 3 years were not easy for either of us. There were traumatic moments, changes in course, but most importantly there was connection and a willingness to go forward. At the transition points we talked, we argued, and we found a way to move through as friends and business partners. It has been a gift, a privilege, and an honor to accompany him on this journey, and even now, 6 weeks later, the moment he crossed the bridge brings me to tears. They are tears of joy, gratitude, and love for a friend and a project. A project that was not mine but quickly became my passion, my own project; integrating into so much of life I cannot imagine, do not care to imagine, how the past 3 years would have unfolded without it. 

Now the project moves on a new path and I cannot help but grieve some of what was. It was never perfect, but it was familiar and faced with the unfamiliar there is fear as well as excitement. For nearly 3 years we journeyed to this space, and finding ourselves having crossed here I find more tears. They are powerful tears, ones that hold space for the grief of the loss of the familiar while holding hope for the future. Around the bend we find ourselves.

I went backpacking

 I went backpacking.

I went backpacking Memorial Day weekend to ground myself, reset myself, and get away from everything that had been occurring over the past few days previously. Friday night I attempted to pack my bag, but my mind was too scattered, unable to focus on even the simplest of tasks of packing up my quilt and grabbing pajamas for the trail. Saturday morning I awoke, anxiety still looming, panic moving slowly throughout me, but at least I had a clear head. I gathered my equipment, my food, and prepared for an errand I needed to run prior to leaving. In the middle of packing and preparing a text came through from a dear friend: call me. My heart sank and my heart-rate skyrocketed, the panic began swirling faster and I took deep breaths, reminding myself I was safe. I replied with a simple, I will try, but I am not OK right now. A boundary, a piece of self-care, and a reminder to my friend that I had told them I needed space.

As I finished my packing and my errands my mind swirled, no response from my friend. I finally text them again: is everything OK? No response. I began my northwest drive to the trailhead, munching on my breakfast finally deciding that I will call when I finish eating. I knew I could ignore them, but my mind was swirling and spinning and I'd be thinking about it so I knew the best course was to deal with it head on. My phone rang and it was my friend. Nothing was wrong, but the conversation did not go well. We argued, picked at each other, and eventually I had to say I'm not OK, I'm not having this conversation right now, we can continue it when we're both in a better place. On I drove, music off and on, GPS guiding me.

I picked up my pack, loaded it on and headed south on the Appalachian Trail towards Duncannon, determined to close out another section. I was completing a section I had been avoiding because of a road walk. I headed down the mountain, across the Susquehanna, through the town, and then back up a new mountain. There I set-up camp at Hawk Rock, a lovely little outcropping with an incredible view of the river and land. I knew I needed to ground myself more, so instinctively I decided to cowboy camp (sleep on the ground without my tent). I was nervous, but felt safe and gave myself permission to setup my tent at any point in the night. The locals and I enjoyed a beautiful sunset and I drifted off to sleep shortly thereafter. A porcupine awoke me around 4am, and the sunlight woke me around 5, with the locals coming in around 6 to watch the sunrise. It was the first morning I woke up without anxiety looming and panic lingering. My head the clearest it had been in days. Sunrise, breakfast in bed, and then I was up and off to retrace my steps, now headed north to close out more miles in this Pennsylvania section.

A long 16+ mile day of hiking, but slow. I ambled about, not caring about time, just letting my body be and my mind wander. There were daydreams, there were prayers, there was quiet. There were other hikers that I passed and chatted with, whereas the day before I kept to myself, barely talking to anyone. I could feel myself coming back into me, coming back into my body, my soul grounding within me. On one particular section I fell into such a rhythm that I fairly forgot I was in Pennsylvania as my mind had drifted to other places. As the day progressed and I spoke with more people I felt more and more comfortable. I set-up camp at the shelter, my tent my home for the night. I ate my dinner among other hikers and attempted to chat with them, but the fatigue of the day and the previous days had caught up and I quickly excused myself. 

Tucked away in my tent I found myself again. The social interactions in passing in the day had been just enough, but dinner had been beyond my limits. A thru-hiker set his tent up across from mind and we conversed through our tents. I felt safe in my tent, away from him, but enjoyed the social interaction. It was a small gift given to me. That night I needed the security of my tent, just the same way I needed to sleep in the open the night before. This long anxiety and panic attack at least had me listening intuitively to my body and my needs in a new way. When your nervous system has been on overdrive for days filtering information becomes challenging and this time in the quiet of nature with the healing power of movement I was finding that connection between myself and my needs.

Monday morning I awoke, rested and connected. Grounded. Calm. No anxiety, no panic, just me. It was another gift. One I gave myself, one I spent the weekend working towards.

As I hiked back to my car all I could think was "I went backpacking"

Hawk Rock Sunset

Quiet, Comfort, and Tears

The tears that would not come yesterday have made their entrance today. A day that started with a need for quiet, for peace, for comfort and solitude. As my youngest went to the bus I made myself a small breakfast of yogurt, blueberries and honey, comfort food and nutrient dense. Something light enough to put in my stomach that wasn't overly interested in being filled, yet was asking for something. With my anxiety often being triggered by hunger I knew this meal was important, and it went down smoothly, yet by the time the meal was done I wanted nothing more than a snuggle and quiet. On my couch I soon found myself nestled against the cushions, unable to read, unable to do anything, my brain and body tired, exhausted. As I felt myself drifting to sleep I set an alarm so that I could make my way upstairs to work.

I settled into the couch and drifted contentedly in and out of that light space. It was not peaceful, but it was comfort. My phone rang, a certain ring tone letting me know an intimate friend was calling, but I ignored it. I needed space, I needed time, and I needed to be in the moment for me. As I made my way upstairs to begin my day the phone rang again, my person calling me a mere 10 minutes later, and again I ignored the call. It was too heavy, too much, all of my energy was being driven into logging into work to begin my day. I played soft music, instinctively knowing that the music I often listen to would be too much for my overwrought system. We rarely discuss the physical and emotional fallout that comes from a panic and anxiety attack. Fatigue, physical fatigue, poor emotional regulation, impaired coordination, body aches, altered hunger responses are a few of the things I have experienced throughout today. Thankful for a quiet Friday at work with no interruptions from my team and the comfort of steady, monotonous work I went about my morning. 

Today I set boundaries for myself with my friends and my business. I am taking the weekend off to be with me, my business, my passion project, will survive without me for the weekend. My friends were told I am not ok, but I will be and I need this space, this time to be with me. I cannot care for them, cannot care for my children, cannot do what I love if I am not ok. I am not ok. These boundaries are difficult. I want nothing more than to call my best friend, yet I won't. Maybe that seems counterintuitive since we are taught and told to reach out when we need help, but I know me, I know what I may do, which is share briefly and then focus on them. This delays going through my process. This delays my own healing, so I let the tears fall and do my best to honor these feelings and move into them. I cannot be who I am without tending to me.

Over lunch I went for a walk, 2 houses from mine I wanted nothing more than to turn home and take a nap. Maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was fatigue, maybe it was fear, but it seized ahold of me and I found myself tensing and my knees wanting to buckle at the same time. My body confused about what it should do, neurons firing haphazardly after the previous day. A few deep belly breaths and with mental fortitude I was able to walk the neighborhood, tears randomly slipping down my cheeks, a soft jazz station playing in my ears. Each song speaking to me, a gift from God and universe, in the midst of the tears I knew these songs were meant for me, meant for my journey, and spoke to me of something special. 

"and I'll see you in the high and low, in the high and low I'll find you" 

"You've got a friend in me, When the road looks rough ahead And you're mile and miles From your nice warm bed You just remember what your old pal said, Boy you've got a friend in me"

"Look now There's more to see See how I used to be There's a memory Something only I could know It's a wildfire Burns everywhere I go But I know the way home, I know the way home"

The day progressed, I eventually responded to a few texts, sent calls to voicemail and simply told those of you who reached out I cannot today. I simply cannot. There is too much to put into words, too much to process, and I don't know where to begin. The tears cannot fully be explained other than a physical release of everything. As my children came into the home my body changed, tension returned as they went about their day. They provided a small boost of energy to me, but as they left for their dad's this weekend I deflated. Thankful for them to be gone so I can focus on me, but I miss their energy, their love, and their distractions.

Sitting with yourself when you are in this space is difficult. I can be alone and alone with myself in many different ways, but this one is challenging me. I will see what the weekend brings. It is planned to bring me to the forest with a backpack, a journal, tissues, and my basic necessities. It will not be about crushing miles, but finding my feet, steadying my ground, and listening. Listening to the woods, to God, to the Universe for the next steps. Patience my friend I know it will say at some point. As part of me wants to revolt against this process I am gently reminded of the prose that I found this morning:

"We view our life by running at it head-on. By always chasing after one emotion to the next. We try to avoid pain by never acknowledging it, by always covering it up with people or places or things to do. But that never allows the pain to heal. It never allows the wounds to close over and create the scars that tell our stories. If we stopped and acknowledge the pain, embraced the pain as an emotion that belongs to us, then we wouldn't always be running" ~Watering the Soul

So I sit in these emotions, knowing that tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will bring new energy, a new dimension to my healing. There will likely be more tears, there will be pain, there will be loneliness and struggles, but there will be growth. There has been growth today. The first day, the first step, the first moment is always the most challenging, but today I made that. I am not ok, but I will be.