Joy in Intentional Attention
I couldn’t have “intended” that, but I sure could savor it.
When I tell you that my husband has hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, all 2650 miles of it (twice), you’ll understand why I don’t consider myself a hiker. I really don’t like to sweat, I hate being out of breath, mosquitoes think I’m caviar, and if I can pick the wrong direction to travel, I do it.
And yet, for the past three summers I’ve been called out to the trail. It helps that the trails have been in Europe, and that at the end of the night I’m tucked above some pub in a comfy little inn under a down comforter (no sheet, but that’s a Europe problem). At the end of the week, I’ve walked between 50-80 miles of trail, up imaginable hills, through cow churned mud, over rocks, between rock circles, been more tired than I thought possible, and yet still making it to the end of the day with my own two feet.
But I’m very hesitant to call myself a hiker, even as I’m out here again—I think because I still have much to learn about being on trail.
Each time I come out, I am asked, “What is your intention?” What I hear in that question is “What am I asking from the trail?” I don’t like that question. It feels too demanding, too transactional, too presumptuous. I’m out here to see what the trail has to offer me. My job is to simple: pay attention and notice what is offered.
And we walked the whole thing—twice. Past the cases of unending meat, past the summer ripe fruit, past the abundant loaves of bread.
I’ve been in country for two days now, and yesterday’s job was to simply stay awake—which my body did just fine from about midnight until four am, but I had the rest of the day to keep my eyes open for. We walked the Frankfort streets, googling “best things to do in Frankfort” and plotting a walking tour that would keep us upright, with side quests for bratwurst and pastries. The Google overlords promised us brats, but the indoor market we found ourselves in did not comply. And we walked the whole thing—twice. Past the cases of unending meat, past the summer ripe fruit, past the abundant loaves of bread. I was absorbing the Germanness of the place when all of a sudden a smiling face popped out of a side aisle and placed a chocolate covered espresso bean in my hand. I didn’t even break pace, she didn’t need more than my gratefully mouth THANK YOU, and I continued my quest for the famed hard rolls and sausage, buoyed on by sugar and caffeine in a bite-sized package.
It was a moment that almost didn’t moment, but a lady wielded her tongs with skill, and I happened to be the recipient of trail magic before I was even on the trail.
I couldn’t have “intended” that, but I sure could savor it.
Tomorrow, we start the real hike, it will probably be the hardest of our 10 days with a lot of elevation changes. Hopefully, my body won’t be waking me up at 2 am asking for second dinners, because there will not be tonged ladies handing out chocolate covered espresso beans in the beech woods later on in the day. But I know there will be other gifts.
Even if I’m not sure I’m a hiker, but I know that hiking does something beautiful for my soul and I’m intending to pay attention for its offering—sweating, out-of-breath body and all.
#joyasresistance