Walkabouts and wanderlust: Part 1
How frail the human heart must be — a mirrored pool of thought.
Sylvia Plath
After almost 22 years of service, my last day at work was anticlimactic. The tasks that needed doing were done, and the only thing that remained was turning in my identification and equipment. It was over.
I chose this path. I resigned. I could have made other choices. I knew this path was the right one for me — necessary, but “right” choices can be the hardest of all.
My heart was a sea of pandemonium, ragged with the chaos of too many battling emotions.
I felt it coming — the struggle against fatigue, depression, and anxiety. So… I did what I do. I planned an adventure.
I’ve read about this thing called green therapy, but for me (and I’m sure many others) it’s instinctual. I retreat somewhere wild when I experience life events that require processing. As a child, I climbed trees, visited animals, or — if I was fortunate to be somewhere dripping with beauty — sit quietly and take it all in. Now, as an adult with the power to choose my surroundings, this need to retreat manifests into travel.
I spent the remainder of that Friday — my last official day of work — loading up the car. Being a free-spirited adventurer, I sometimes find myself lacking travel companions. Not this time. I was blessed with the company of my sweet Crash, the most well-traveled dog rescued from the streets of Baltimore I know. We started driving at 2:30 a.m. the following morning.
Destination: Northern Michigan
I drove and drove (over 1,100 miles) to a campsite reserved in my name outside Munising, Michigan.
Realities I discovered on Day 1:
- Crash is not meant for the backseat. He rides shotgun.
- I am amazingly efficient at setting up a campsite by myself. No one can prove otherwise.
- The welcome wagon in Northern Michigan (the Upper Peninsula, or U.P.) consists of a crushing horde of large mosquitoes.
- The Great Lakes are breathtakingly beautiful. I find them as beautiful (although not nearly as warm) as any Caribbean water.
- The U.P. is an excellent place to unplug from technology. In fact, it’s not a choice. Obtaining a cell signal is the exception, not the rule.
We stayed three nights at our campsite, pondering life by the fire at night, touring the National Lakeshore by day, and exploring water.
Water knows no bounds in the U.P. It falls from the sky… and the rocks… and the trees. It wanders between streams, marshes, and ponds, oblivious to anyone’s expectation of where it belongs. It seeks its own company, flowing to the Great Lakes as it chases the echo of water that came before. It dominates the landscape, and yet it’s also hidden — beneath tall grass and among the looming trees of the thick forests.
The symbolism of water is hard to ignore, especially on a trip like this.
Water cleanses. The repetition of its dripping, lapping, and bubbling can soothe us, if we let it. Water embraces and envelops us instantly, transforming our world from an empty air-filled experience to a thick, wet, wonderful but potentially suffocating cradle. It’s beautiful, restorative, and potentially deadly all at the same time.
What else can do all of this besides water? No wonder Crash is afraid when he gets too close to the waves. Perhaps he is awestruck by the gravity of what all this means. I’m not ready to think about what it means. I’m only capable of losing myself in the present moment. The bigger picture is too much to bear.
These observations remind me that life is a journey. It can’t be seen or known by a passing glance. It must be explored, discovered, and observed. It must be done so with reverence, or the meaning will be lost. It can be messy, tiring, and frustrating at times. But, the *knowing* is achieved through *doing,* which isn’t easy.
One night, we returned to the shore of Lake Superior, hoping to see the Northern Lights.
The sun didn’t begin to set until well after 9 p.m., but I waited on the sand — wondering if I would get to check the Northern Lights off my bucket list. I hadn’t come for that purpose — I didn’t think it was possible that time of year, but a woman in town hinted that they might be visible, even in the summer. So I waited with hope and growing expectation.
By 12:30 a.m., I decided to call it a night. Crash had long since given up and complained so much about the sand and the water — and the cold breeze — that I took him back to the car to rest in solitude until my waiting and wondering came to a conclusion.
I did not see the Northern Lights, but don’t interpret that as disappointment.
My eyes, and my mind, were inundated. Blinking satellites slid smoothly and rhythmically across the sky. Meteor showers burst across the sky in fits and starts. Then there were the stars, ever-present behind it all. I was reminded that there are exponentially more stars in the sky than problems in my life.
Like many good things, all these stars are outside the scope of my vision most days. Sometimes I can’t see them; they are obscured by light that is closer and more intense. Other times I choose not to see them; I’m not looking up. But at all times, I must gather strength from the knowledge that they are there. Some circumstances can only be endured by knowing that there is much than we can see in the moment.
We returned to our campsite for one final sleep before packing up and moving on.
What happens next?
South Dakota happens next, which is another story for another time. South Dakota — although permeated by an impossibly sweet and intoxicating smell — is not saturated with water. I’m not quite ready to move on from the water yet.
It’s true that water cleanses us, sometimes by washing away and sometimes by dissolving. I wish it were as simple as jumping into the water and coming out clean — refreshed. If that were the case, I would dive into Lake Superior head first, welcoming the shock of the cold water, which I expect would be agonizing until my body started to lose feeling.
Yet, I continue to discover that deeply rooted beliefs and problems cannot simply be rinsed away. Twenty-two years of repressing, resenting, and enduring, as well as rejoicing, achieving, and celebrating, cannot be spontaneously washed away. I must dive into the water again and again, each time coming up a smidge less varnished, a little less entangled with that image of who I am supposed to be instead of who I am. I must purify, forgive, and accept — and then do it again and again and again. I must be patient with myself. I must have faith that I will get where I need to go, not only with my life and my heart but also my understanding. I’m working on it.