Last weekend, I did something I didn’t really think I could do. I carried my possessions on my back and hiked 5.5 miles through the wilderness, slept in the frigid cold… and then hiked back the next day. And I didn’t die. I didn’t even see a mountain lion. Here’s how it all went down.
I have a hard time knowing when to stop. Rushing through each day hoping I’ll have the stamina to complete it. It’s a race between my energy and the clock. And the sun goes down, my daughter drifts off, and I melt into a puddle on the floor.
But actually, it’s the couch. And there’s Netflix. And eating. So much eating…
And at some point – if I can muster the tiniest bit of self control – I peel myself up and plod reluctantly to bed.
This is where I found myself exactly one month ago. Only it was before lunch – I was staring at my computer – and I just felt heavy. My body was tired. My mind was exhausted. And, possibly what troubled me the most, my heart was empty. I had absolutely nothing left to give.
When I share with a friend that I enjoy a solo hike in the woods, I’m often met with incredulous looks and questions like “Aren’t you scared?” And when I was married, the questions were more like “And your husband is okay with that?”
As I drive, Missouri’s rural glory fills my eyes. Fall’s beauty is emerging – bits of red and amber peeking through the bright green leaves. I gulp it down like a rich glass of my favorite pinot noir. My muscles relax – one by one. I am almost there.