Over the past month, I’ve been trying to figure out how to fit everything in. How to do my paying gig. How to finish my book. How to write here consistently. How to go for hikes or rides. How to get enough sleep. How to meditate. How to journal. How to feed myself well.
You get the picture.
I say it’s only been happening over the past month, but the truth is, I’ve been at it a while in fits and starts. I get caught up in the day-to-day and then realize I’ve put the things that mean most to me on the back burner. The things that feed my soul, increase my energy, clear my head. It’s these that I set aside for the mundane…until I realize that by just focusing on the mundane, telling myself I’ll get to my loves as soon as I finish what I have to do, I kill entire days where the mundane just drags on and on and on.
Not because it has to, but because I’ve allowed myself to get pulled down into the vortex of distractions, stalling, and procrastination, resisting what I must do at the cost of what I love to do.
Whole days pass by where nothing much gets done.
Now, I’m a big fan of recovery days, times when you allow yourself to just be a blob. Stare out the window and think of nothing in particular. Lounge on the couch and eat food just because it tastes good. Nap, even.
I also think occasional boredom is a good thing. When we busy minds and bodies every waking hour, when we expect entertainment (even if it’s the mindless scrolling on social media), we don’t allow ourselves the space to dream up something new or have an “aha” moment borne out of spaciousness in our minds. Boredom offers this space.
However, I often get caught up in a cycle of
Wanting to do it all…
Allowing myself to get distracted or drag out how long it takes to tick off my “musts”…
Putting off what I most love to do…
Frantically catching up on those must-dos…
Getting exhausted by the frantic catchup I do nothing on off days…
And repeat.
Of course, I can also be hard on myself for my human frailties. Though, thankfully, much less so these days.
June here in the PNW is magical. The rains have moved off. Any morning clouds from the marine layer tend to break up and drift away by early afternoon. Temperatures are throw-open-the-windows-and-let-the-gentle-breezes-blow-through perfect. Wildflowers are in full bloom, and the rhodies are showing off their best pinks, purples, and whites. Summer birds are back in residence, trilling and chirping and twittering in a lively chorus.
Magical.
Last weekend, I had stuff to do. A new writing project for a new client and preparations for the summer course I teach (which began Monday). It was also low tide. The lowest tide of the year.
I thought perhaps I could take some time to go check out the tidepools on Sunday and still have time for getting my class ready.
That was the plan.
But when Sunday morning came around, I felt crabby and agitated. Even the idea of going to the tidepools wasn’t lifting my spirits. I let my mood overtake me enough that I decided against doing anything fun. And I sat outside with my cat and got to work on my syllabus.
Until it hit me.
I needed to do something to lift my spirits because that’s exactly why I felt so at odds with the beautiful spring day.
Yet, going to the tidepools wasn’t it.
It was time to throw off the constraints I’d placed on myself and head for the mountains, trusting I’d still have time to do what needed to be done after recharging my everything.
And that’s exactly what I did.
I threw my hiking pack together and put on my hiking gear at lightning speed, not allowing myself the opportunity to talk myself out of it.
It was the first weekend of June and my first mountain trail hike of the summer. And, damn, it felt good.
Mount Walker is the closest mountain trail of any significance to me, and it’s a fairly challenging one, especially for someone who’s done little to work those climbing muscles over the long winter months. It’s 2.2 miles of switchbacks, climbing 2,000 feet, through forests filled with cedar, hemlock, alder, and fir, peppered with rhododendron and salal.
Last year, I hiked this trail for the first time with a friend. I’d read that the views at the top were supposed to be amazing, but when we got there, the viewpoints were cloaked in a swirl of mist and swift-moving clouds. Mystical and beautiful in its own right but not the expansive views I expected.
Well, I got them this year.
I arrived at the trailhead at noon, slipping into the one open parking spot, vacated only moments before. On the way up the trail, I passed several hikers who’d already made the trip to the top. But mostly I was alone in the embrace of trees, flowers, birds, and the earthy scents of the forest. I glimpsed the peaks of the Olympics — still streaked with veins of snow — through the spaces between the branches. It was a balm for my mountain- and forest-loving soul.
It also reminded me of how important it is to look between the branches to discover what lies beyond the crowded tangles of our own full lives. Even if you love the forest that you live in.
And then there was the climb itself. My muscles scoffed at what I asked of them. My lungs laughed.
But, still, I kept going. Pushing myself through the discomfort, allowing myself to stop for breathers often. And though trail etiquette dictates that downhill hikers yield to uphill hikers, I gave right of way to those passing me on the way down every time, just so I could catch my breath. And with each deep inhale, I took in more of the energy of the forest and the life it holds, creating more space in my heart and mind as well as my lungs.
On wobbly legs, red-faced and sweaty, I reached the first viewpoint.
This feeling of agitation that arises from not tending to my soul isn’t new to me. It isn’t even new to me when living in a place I love. During my years in Garmisch, Germany, I often experienced the same feeling. Garmisch is a beautiful town that sits in a valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. It’s truly a special place and will always be a home of my heart (now, not the only one). But I learned that every time I felt stuck or agitated, it was time to hit a mountain trail and climb up for a different view, a new perspective. A different way of moving in my mind and my environment.
I reached the top of Mount Walker feeling lighter, accomplished, and already stronger than when I started the hike. I took in the somewhat hazy sight of Mt. Baker in the distance, with the Puget Sound and Admiralty Inlet in between. On the other side of the north viewpoint, the Olympics rise in rugged peaks that are somehow both strong and graceful, like a troupe of dancers holding a pose, muscles bunched with the effort of being soft.
After absorbing the view, I walked the half mile to the south viewpoint.
And my heart leaped with joy at the scene spread out before me. Mt. Rainier’s familiar cone shape, looking dapper in a black-and-white striped jacket against a cerulean sky. The soft, lushness of green-carpeted islands floating on tranquil painted blue waters.
I sat on a bench and enjoyed the scenery with two couples drifting in and then out again. I had just enough time to eat an apple before a group of around 20 people of varying ages swooped in with loud voices, bubbles, crackers to feed the birds (ugh), and no sense that anyone else was around. When two of them left to go grab a table to set up right there, I took my queue and headed on my way.
I made another stop at the first viewpoint to have one more look at the expansive landscape in front of me, watching two bald eagles floating on the currents above, a Canada jay flitting about, and a chipmunk looking for handouts he wouldn’t get from me.
Filled with the energy I always get from seeing the world from a high place, I took my first steps on the trail back down, fully anticipating a relaxing descent.
Only to find that I had to work almost as hard going down as up. The steep incline was covered with dry, loose dirt, needles, and rocks, making for a sketchy surface. I used two hiking poles but still had to take it slow and work my leg muscles to maintain an upright position, often skidding over the surface, heart skipping with the assurance I was absolutely going to face plant.
Thankfully, I only fell once. A slow-motion, entirely ungraceful, forward plunk. No damage other than a slightly skinned knee. Not even my ego, as no one was there to witness the fall.
My legs screamed at me all the way down. Each time I stopped for a break, they wobbled and shook under the weight of my body, protesting at my insistence that they continue to hold me up.
And I loved it, feeling my muscles work, catching myself before falling, landing quite softly the one time I didn’t, and breathing in the space I walked in — in my mind, my heart, my spirit.
We are all stronger than we often give ourselves credit for. We can do more than we let ourselves believe we can.
We crowd out our days, our minds, our dreams so we don’t have to try. We don’t have to disappoint. We don’t have to fail.
We often don’t even need society to constrain us. We do it to ourselves.
But, sometimes, we need to break free from the constraints, to make space for our truest selves to blossom.
Peace and love,
Desserae
Shifting Space by Desserae Shepston is a community-supported newsletter. I am so grateful to you for stopping by and taking the time to read. If you’d like to receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. A paid subscription is just $5/month or $50/year. Adding the Substack app lets you easily join the conversation and participate in the community. And if this post resonates, please feel free to share!
Another stellar blog - and amazing pics! Thanks for sharing...
So enjoyed our camping trip - looking forward to next year. xo