In the beginning of this season of pandemic my internal GPS had to launch a route recalculation practically every day. Our family crushed on top of each other and the walls felt too close. Left with no recourse I complied yet could not bring myself to like it. It was stressful, overwhelming and left me feeling stuck. Like most everyone I know, I made every effort to become more comfortable with interiority, with the unpredictable, the entirely scary, the route incalculable by any mapping app.
When sheltering orders lifted, I escaped to the woods. Loamy paths winding through tall trunks, the pungent smell of crushed pine needles. Steep paths enmeshed with roots and sharp rocks best skipped along swiftly. I craved the company of trees, skittish squirrels, the lone owl perched on her high branch gazing at me unblinkingly. In pre-COVID days I stuck to the familiar paths, secure in the predictability of their offerings: The war memorial, the field of native asters, the beaver lodge. Lately though these spaces offer little comfort. Now I find myself drawn into obscured overgrown routes, wandering along new trails, going entirely off-trail, curving, climbing, drifting like the fluffy milkweed seeds in the breeze.
These meandering walks have over time sparked a slight internal shift, a germinating ability to surrender my typically earmarked hours to the sway of these unfathomable days. For the hyper-organized person that I normally am, it still does not feel comfortable, but it's ok. I see and think with a mind a bit more unleashed. We are each inching our way forward together and apart. There are still a lot of route recalculations, of course. But I am hopeful that this forced circuitousness will have positive outcomes and open unforeseen internal channels and fresh perspectives.