I left a skeptic.  Crossing the threshold circle was just like stepping over a fallen branch or rock, an obstacle in my path. Carefully heading up the hill so as not to shift the delicate balance between my body and pack, I felt like I was setting out on an ordinary walk, a workout designed to push my body to some limit.  Trek two miles through hills and valleys, carry fifty pounds of gear, twenty of which are extraneous, then starve yourself for the next three days and nights.  Totally doable, I’m going to look great at the end of this.

My goal seemed simple: use this experience as a test. A test of endurance, courage, and strength.  In the days leading up to my departure I wasn’t nervous.  This was another trip in my seemingly endless travels across the country.  Another week, old friends, a way to catch up and feel connected to something. I left knowing that this process, this ceremony, was going to push me; this was a trial for what was ahead.  One month after the fast I would be finalizing my plans, and moving across the country to California.  I would be leaving my friends, my family, my life on the East Coast behind with only opportunity and uncertainty calling.  There would be no net, no support system, a step off the sidewalk into the unknown; equal parts terror and thrill.

Green.  That was how I felt for the first few days.  New, fresh, verdant, exposed.  I hated what I was doing, and knew I was in the right place.  I don’t like sharing; I don’t like being vulnerable; I don’t like being dirty.  Of all people this was not for me.  But I was called.  I put my energy and intentions out into the universe, and the universe brought me back what I needed.  This journey came at exactly the right time.  I was raw and open, my intention was clear: I am brave, and I am not alone.   

I reached my chosen spot, a slight hill overlooking a field of clover, a brook chiming with the low chords of bullfrogs, a deer, a crane, and a fish.  I pulled out my tarps and quickly fashioned a lean to shielding me from the morning sun.  Looking fondly over my new abode, I wondered ‘Now what?’. It turned out to be a nap.  Rising a few hours later, I became aware of the length of my attention span checking my watch every fifteen minutes, time passing by and my fondness for the woods slowly dissipating.  

I did what I always do when I’m at a loss; I returned to the text.  I had brought three books to keep me company in the woods, to nurture and teach me: a collection of poems from Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, a set of rules from Ethan Hawke, and a pilgrim’s contemplations from Annie Dillard. My discoveries? Hawke first: “Love is the end goal. It is the music of our lives. There is no obstacle love cannot move.” Berssenbrugge: “I underestimate the power of my connection with other people, with animals and events that are coincident.” Finally Dillard: “When the muse comes she doesn’t tell you to write. She says get up for a minute, I’ve got something to show you, stand here.” I went for a walk, still lost. I hadn’t realized it yet, but I was mourning.

I didn’t think anything was going to happen.  I stopped in the woods to feel the quiet.  I stilled, and the world kept spinning, the stillness an illusion.  The bugs broke across the leaves, the breeze giggled, and it rained.  Rained, and rained, and rained. I was cleansed, I dried, but then I moved again.  The sun cast itself across my body, and it was warm.  Maybe it was the slither of the snake, but I glanced down, and noticed that the tan on my arm had started to fade.  The freckles had silenced, no longer screaming of damage, and had returned to a deep gold.  I missed the roof: that same sun slowly moving across the glass casting a flickering shadow, the ice drifting, the glacier melting into my drink, bubbles carrying a spritz of grapefruit to break the surface.  Laughter carrying across the deck into the neighbor’s windows, smiles for days, and the slow and steady rhythm of Hall and Oates whispering in the background.  That was what I missed, those people, my people, our memories. I cried. I cried more than ever before, filling that creek with my own pain, my own loss.  I slept, I cheated, and felt drained, knowing the storm might still be coming.

I woke the next morning scratching the fresh bites across my forearm. I needed the water.  Not just to drink, but a body to be near.  Water has always been a part of my story.  The coves of Maine, lakes of New York, and rivers of Maryland, constantly moving and never ceasing.  I set out for the river, the waterfall, and the streams, stopping, listening, and watching.  By noon I had walked six miles with the accidental backtracking and finished nearly a gallon of water.  My steps were slow and labored, but steady and consistent, a beat catching as I moved. It finally hit me, if love is what I seek, then why am I here? Why am I alone? I am here to say goodbye. I encountered love and found forgiveness that morning.  I didn’t receive any visitors, but I saw all of the love, and all of that coming right back to me. I felt full.  Each step approached an ever expanding rim, then the water overflowed and I let everything in and then out, breathing like I was underwater.  Then the real walk started.

I’ve got something to show you, stand here. An hour went by, then another, and then one more. The slow steps continued, six more miles.  I walked, and the walk became the ceremony.  Love, forgiveness, gratitude, that was the vision.  Each step dedicated to the ones I love, their gifts, our memories, that love.  Alyssa, Matt, Montana, Rob, Alyssa, Matt, Montana, Rob, Pat, Kelly, Alyssa, Matt, Jenna, Greg, Kerry, Dan, Michelle, Hilary, Michelle, Mike, Jess, Alex, Debbie, Charlie, Jess, Alex...Kyler... The names repeated, the list grew longer, my gratitude, my love expanded, and I felt whole.  This was it: these are my people, this is the message to take back. This is how to say goodbye. And I walked. There is no obstacle love cannot move.

On the third day, I woke again scratching the bites. My back ached, swollen, bruised, and showing signs of a former infection.  I was not alone. I knew my friends and family were with me. I acknowledged and thanked them. A way to begin to say goodbye. There was an enormous amount of love there, in every moment, and for that I was incredibly grateful.  I finally understood why I was there, and what I was doing.  My morning walk tested me, the discomfort increased, the bump on my back grew as I walked.  One final journey to the river. Show me what is left to find. I listened to my body and realized what was it was saying.  It was time to go. Time to find the doctor, carve my back, return to my people, bring the call, say goodbye.  

I returned the messenger. The test was over, and now the real journey began. Back. One day back to the desert...Alyssa, Matt, Montana, Rob, Alyssa, Matt, Montana, Rob, Pat, Kelly, Alyssa, Matt, Jenna, Greg, Kerry, Dan, Michelle, Hilary, Michelle, Mike, Jess, Alex, Debbie, Charlie, Jess, Alex... Kyler...