One more time . . .

            Well, I’m off again for a summer adventure. This year, hopefully, I’ll complete the most difficult hike so far – the John Muir Trail. I’m also planning to be gone for 11 weeks – the longest I’ve ever been away from those I love and familiar surroundings. Since I live alone, you wouldn’t think it would be that difficult, but I found out last summer just how hard it is to be away from all you know.

            Last year, I was naïve in many ways. I had no idea how lonely it can get on the road. I have traveled alone before, for as long as 30 days, so I expected I would miss my kids. But I didn’t realize how many times, when they had something come up in their own lives, I missed being able to be there for them in person, to be able to drive an hour or so down the interstate and give them a hug or a reassuring word. I know how much physical comfort means to receive, but I had no idea how much it means to be able to give it. 

I also missed intimacy. While Facebook and the blog help me feel connected while I’m on the road, and random connections with strangers fill some of those empty places, having no one with whom to share the intimacies that come from sharing new experiences can sometimes create a palpable, deep loneliness. I have no doubt I’ll experience those bouts of loneliness along the way, but I seem somehow more prepared just knowing to expect them.

I was naïve in other ways too. I realize that last year I had expectations of some grand realization or life-changing event. I approached each day, each new experience, as if hidden within it was a fortune cookie promise actualized., and by showing up, I’d cracked the cookie open, its riches eager to shower upon me. Of course, these were unreal expectations. Sure, I had some amazing, unforgettable experiences, and I was changed by the events of the summer, but none of them were that earth-shattering, paradigm-shifting, mind-blowing experience I’d imagined. And so I had a nagging sense of disappointment much of the time.

Finally, last year the trip was handicapped by circumstance and timing. I was sorting through the fresh loss of a man I dearly loved and whom I expected to be always in my life in one form or another. The various stages of grief tag-teamed my psyche most of the summer, and I spent a lot of time aching from that raw wound of loss.

Not only was I emotionally wounded last year, but also I suffered a physical injury to my foot. This injury crippled me and forced me to abort the biggest event of the summer, the 220-mile John Muir Trail from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney. The disappointment was devastating, and making the decision to pull out at the last minute was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Even though I knew then and I know now it was the right decision, I felt like a quitter and a failure. That feeling followed me home where I lay around the house for the second half of the summer, nursing my wounds.

I am blessed to have another chance at that hike and the summer of adventure. This year is a new opportunity, even though I’m redoing some of the events I’d planned last year. I am hiking the JMT this summer with a foot that is about 95 percent healthy. I’m in a stronger place emotionally and spiritually than I was last summer, and, maybe more than anything, I have lost the naiveté from last year. I know to expect the loneliness. I know not to expect an earth-shattering experience. I am more fully awake to the present moment, remembering most of the time to let go of expectation, judgment, and desire. I feel more able to take whatever comes without having to label it as a “good” experience or a “bad” experience, and simply take it in.

Who knows what the summer will bring. But I know one thing: It will be what it is. And I’m ready for just that. Nothing more and nothing less.