Category Archives: Moving on

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

It has been a long time since I read a book I enjoyed as much as “Wild,” by Cheryl Strayed. For the last year or so, I’ve been on a non-fiction kick, reading about economics, exploring the science of food and diving into the senses of a dog. But even before that, I really don’t recall the last time I connected to a novel as much as I did “Wild”—maybe in high school when I read Megan McCafferty’s series following my sweet Jessica Darling through her teenage trials and triumphs.

wild

Not only is “Wild” well written, but I found many points of connection with Cheryl (the novel’s author and main character). That’s not to say we’ve shared all the same experiences:

  • She struggled with drug addiction
  • She lost her mother at the young age of 23
  • She divorced her sweetheart and best friend
  • She hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, solo no less

But, then there are the similarities:

  • We’re both writers
  • We both grew up without a fathers
  • We were both raised by a magnificent mother
  • We’ve both accomplished things we’d never thought ourselves possible of

But beyond the obvious, easy-to-point-out aspects of our lives that make us similar, there’s just something about Cheryl that makes me feel a connection to her. Maybe that’s what makes her such a talented writer, being able to invoke such an overwhelming emotional connection as I absorb the pages of her writing.

There’s no doubt that Cheryl’s and my life are far from parallel. Our struggles that led us to similar places differ greatly: Physical versus emotional. However, I think we’ve both fought with the other’s struggle. But I’ve found that pain, no matter how inflicted, tends to evoke similar responses in people. There’s the fight or flight response, both on impact and after the pain has struck, once it’s time to actually deal with it.

So, let me get to the point of all this. The reason why I’m bothering to draw all of these comparisons. For the last two-and-a-half years, I’ve been embarking on physical feats I never thought possible of myself. And along the way, I’ve had many people ask me why. A lot of friends and family have given me quizzical looks when I explained to them what my next obstacle to overcome would be. And I’ve come to the realization that most don’t understand. Well, there’s one section in “Wild” that, for me, perfectly explained what I’d been wanting to say:

This—the hardest thing I’d ever done.

I stopped in my tracks when that thought came into my mind, that hiking the PCT was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Immediately, I amended the thought. Watching my mother die and having to live without her, that was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Leaving Paul and destroying our marriage and life as I knew it for the simple and inexplicable reason that I felt I had to—that had been hard as well. But hiking the PCT was hard in a different way. In a way that made the other hardest things the tiniest bit less hard. It was strange but true. And perhaps I’d known it in some way from the very beginning. Perhaps the impulse to purchase the PCT guidebook months before had been a primal grab for a cure, for the thread of my life that had been severed.

I could feel it unspooling behind me—the old thread I’d lost, the new one I was spinning—while I hiked that morning, the snowy peaks of the High Sierras coming into occasional view.

 

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Today was a Sad Day

I’m not sure just why, but today was a sad day. It loomed over me on my morning walk. The air was crisp, not as humid as it had been. The sky was fresh blue, but there was something lurking in the distance.

As the day went on, these suspicions were confirmed. A reminder of a court hearing appeared on my Newsfeed – I wished them well (this has been left intentionally vague). Later, the follow up for that hearing’s sentencing was delivered to me via text, and my eyes welled. I was left with so many questions. But there was one thing that mattered the most:

I feel more at peace.

In this life, we are touched by so many. Those who are close to us, related by blood. Those who we pick up along the way, the ones who feel like they were meant to be in your bloodline. But then there are the ones we never meet, the ones whose stories we read, the ones whose lives never directly cross our paths. And yet, somehow, our lives can still be touched by theirs.

To the family who lost their sister, their mother, their daughter too soon: You are in my thoughts.

I Guess That’s How The Future’s Done

Do you ever hold on to things and you’re not sure quite why? I have knick knacks that make up a well-told history, but really have no meaning. Some may hold some sentimental memories, but there’s no real value in any of it. And no, I’m not talking hoarder-style. I do have a lot of belongings, but the majority of it is clothing and books.

However, there are some things I’ve held on to past their time of need. Some date back years, while other only weeks. For instance, I have a framed photo of my best friend from high school and I on the shelf in my living room. We haven’t spoken since early in college, but I keep that picture on display. I’m not sure why, I just never thought to replace it.

I have a piece of loose leaf paper I once received folded eight times from a stranger when getting off of the bus at my college campus. After a bad day – of which I don’t remember the cause today – I read inspirational words on that paper. When I looked up to see who had turned my day around, I saw no one. It didn’t change my life, but the words written in blue ink have remained tacked to my cork board since.

Every single spare button that’s come attached to a sweater, jacket, shirt or blazer I’ve purchased are bunched together in a small sack. I doubt I’ll ever do anything with one of them, and many are from clothing that’s long gone. Still, I keep them on hand.

I have Beanie Babies, remember those? Not the entire collection from my childhood – those are boxed up somewhere in the basement at my parents’ house. I have four, all of which I believe I’ve obtained since leaving for college, and – if I remember correctly – were given to me by my mom. There’s a pink sock monkey, his name is Poet. The other three are a pig (of course), a giraffe and a bear. Every time I have to find a place to put them, I wonder why they’re still around or how Maize hasn’t de-stuffed them, but still … I keep them.

Yet, in spite of all the things I keep without knowing why, there are other things that must go. Eventually, once treasured cards get tossed in the trash. The now rarely printed photograph gets replaced. Things break, they fall apart, and lose their necessity. Other things, are harder to throw away, but simply need to go so you can let go. Tonight, I did just that.

A bag full of damaged property that held nothing but poor memories was taken out to the alley and shoved into an overflowing garbage bin. The musty smell that had been hidden in a storage room for months was finally removed. The only belong worth saving had been recovered – yes I know the exact date – on November 25, 2012. It was a ring I had adored and feared was destroyed beyond repair. But lo and behold, the first time I ventured into that bag of nightmares, it was found.

I’m not sure why we hold on to faded memories, in our mind’s eye or with physical objects, but we do. What’s in the past is just that, passed. And perhaps it shouldn’t matter, but it does.

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