A Place to Land
Somewhere on the AT in Virginia on day 13 of my supported thru-hike, over 600 miles in!
Is suffering truly suffering if it's self-imposed? When I think back to my time on the Appalachian Trail, I remember distinctly the pain and suffering. My screaming shins, my feet that felt like they were being stabbed over and over with a thousand daggers, my desperation for sleep, my hope that the next day might possibly be better. I wailed and wallowed almost every morning as I hiked, feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, and struggling to believe that I'd ever reach Katahdin. I found comfort in reciting hymns and gospel songs about faith and perseverance. I found myself praying out loud in the forest.
I could have stopped at any time, and it's a wonder that I didn't. I don't mean that in a gloating way. I think maybe the question that comes up for many, even myself, is, "Why?" What do we gain from suffering, especially the self-imposed kind? Maybe it was the curiosity of finding out what would happen next. Maybe it was that I was clinging to hope for something. Meaning? A definitive outcome? That my legs would eventually feel better?
I carried the hope, pain, doubt, and fear all the way with me to the summit of Katahdin. Those things never went away. My legs never got better. My body became taut and bony. I could hardly stay balanced on my swollen, bandaged feet without the use of my hiking pole. The night before I completed the trail, with 32.5 miles remaining, Warren excitedly said, "It's your last sleep before you finish!" And I glumly responded, "I don't know, we'll see." The next afternoon, under the warmth of the sun and a clear blue sky and with no one else in sight, I touched the weathered sign at the top of the Greatest Mountain and finally allowed myself to believe it was all real.
Was it worth the suffering? Yes. Will I ever be able to articulate why? I'm not so sure. Did it change my life profoundly? Obviously! Did it make any kind of lasting impact on others? The flood of letters I received afterward made it seem so.
In the time since, my body has physically healed but I've experienced a new sort of pain; the pain of not fitting into my "old" self, the pain of growing apart from others that were once close, and the pain of seeing with eyes wide open what seemed better left undisturbed in the past. The hardest part of the trail wasn't the "during", but the "after". This isn't a new revelation, but the ripple effect of it all keeps showing itself in new ways.
Just as on the trail, the question of "Why?" continues to pop up. Why did I have to go and mess everything up? Why did everything happen this way? What in the world do I do now? Some possibilities have presented themselves, but unlike the AT, there are no white blazes showing which way to go. I'm coming to find that the only way to know is by listening to the deepest part of myself, the intuition (or "the knowing" as Glennon Doyle wrote in Untamed), and leaning on the guidance, advice, and support of my family and close friends along the way. The spinning and swirling without an axis continues, and I'm looking for a place to land.
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Thanks for reading. If this resonated with you in some way, please consider buying me a coffee. Your support gives me affirmation in my writing, for which I'm so appreciative. This was originally published via my newsletter on January 31st. Be sure to subscribe for more weekly stories if you haven't already done so. Until next week! ~Mercury
