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Being Lost and Recognizing That We’re Lost are Two Different Things
On Saturday I turned 50.
I drove to the lake by myself early in the morning and walked the 5 mile path around it. The sun was ultra bright, still low in the cloudless sky and the swans were out fishing, ducking their long necks into the freezing water. They looked like tiny white sailboats, drifting slowly around the center of the lake.
The path was mostly empty. I only passed two other walkers. One of them returned my gaze and said good morning. The other was deep in her own thoughts and looked away as we passed. I didn’t mind. I appreciate that we can be authentic in the woods.
Sometimes, depending on what’s happening in your life, you’d rather not smile. You’d rather not exchange momentary pleasantries with strangers — even though the research says it’s good for our mental health when we encourage ourselves to do it.
At the end of the walk, my hips were sore and my face was bright red, burning from the cold. I drove home with the heat on and windows slightly cracked, trying to acclimate after a long time outside. At the top of the hill, waiting for the lights to change, I noticed that just beyond the tree line, in the far distance, I could see the mountains.
