The trauma healing work of last week had me struggling to stay in my body. Breathe. Feel. Sleep. Connect. Became a mantra that moved me through the week. I reduced work to a minimum, as I prioritized feeling my body, feeling my breath, feeling me. Hiking a mountain after all this was quite a feat.
It snowed the night before so we went on what we thought would be a “light hike” on the Surte the area just around San Giorgio del Sannio (Bn) and Montefusco (Av) just about 10 and 15 miles from where I live in Italy.
The only light thing about this hike were the provisions, because most of us expected a two hour hike and lunch at home. Instead, we walked from 10am to 4pm through 16 km up to 700m in height with varying degrees of snow—up to a couple of feet, in some spots. As this week I struggled to stay in my body, hiking was a whole other level of surrender.
Surrender to what is and what will be. Uphill hikes are always tough for me: I have little lung capacity and my calves ache. The discomfort and pain start at the first uphill. On this hike we parked on the hill-so the uphill started as soon as we got out of the car. I know that I generally get a second wind about an hour into the hike. So I surrender to the first hour not being fun at all…The what’s so is that I’m out of shape and the beginning isn’t fun. As we get to more remote areas, the landscapes get more pretty, my heart lightens up, and my calves, too. I trust this will happen. The process is simply that the beginning sucks.
Surrender to the water. Three hours in, water is a full reality. Shirt is soaked from sweat. My feet are soaked from the snow, because the shoes are too. I know, the best shoes wouldn’t be soaked. It just so happens these shoes are supercomfortable, even if they’re wet. I’m thankful that my wool socks keep me warm even if they’re wet—only wool does this, as I learned from friends on earlier hikes. I make peace with the moisture. It’s part of the journey. When I raise my turtleneck, I can smell the smell of my own sweat, I make peace with that too. I know water carries profound healing—I’m thankful to it in all these forms.
Surrender to the uphill. If the first uphill is tough because I’m not warmed up, the uphills three or four or five hours in are a whole other story. I feel weak uphill, I’m slow as a snail, I leave my friends behind by at least a km—attempting to find a pace and rhythm that will allow me steady movement with fewer breaks. I really hate going uphill. The group I hike with the most, though, have mountain top fever—they live for the peak, for the euphoria of the highest point. They don’t even consider taking breaking before it, the peak for them is the point. So I tug along, huffing and puffing last in line—surrendering to my own ambivalence: I hate the uphill, but I love the peaks, too. The uphill forces me to connect with the body that seemed foreign to me all this week. The right calf muscle pulls forth, as does the left. They alternate each time the tip of my toe hits the pavement. Four hours in, I begin to feel my thigh muscles, too. My shortness of breath accompanies me on. Eventually, through the strain, I find my own rhythm.
Surrender to the rhythm. Once I hiked the Grand Canyon. It was the supreme experience of surrendering to God. I wrote about it in this article. I hiked the 18 miles, 11 hours uphill in the rain, with the inappropriate equipment (plastic bags on my head, my body, and my backpack because I had no rain gear), in the mud, with the beginning of a fever, and two granola bars for the whole hike. I found a ranger on the path, who hiked an hour with me in total silence. I was leaning on a stick, making the smallest steps I ever thought possible. “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other,” he encouraged me, “as long as you do so and stay on this path, you will arrive.” That hike was the supreme experience of exhaustion. And it taught me something very important, that once I find my own rhythm, I can go on for hours. If uphill isn’t my forte, endurance is. My sense of determination is fierce. I may walk like a snail, but I don’t give up. I arrive, after everyone else has paused for 15 min at times, but I arrive, at my own pace and rhythm. The rhythm helps create momentum. There is momentum in the slow-paced movement too—even if it’s more gradual.
Surrender to the pauses. We had two gorgeous breaks on this hike. One, in almost two feet of snow, behind a water spring—all of us sharing the little we had. Seven people, one dog, two bottles of wine, hot tea, three chicken wings, a few cold potatoes, lots of taralli—our unique breadsticks, some precious slices of pizza chiena, an easter favorite, a salty cheese, salami, and eggs wrapped in filodough—even more precious to all of us because the small portions didn’t relieve our 4-hour hike hunger. At the fifth hour, at the highest town, ready for the last hour downhill, we stop in a restaurant. The gang drank beer. I prefer my grappa with a chocolate dessert. Both rest stops enliven my spirit. Food is amazing. Pause is amazing. Breath is heaven.
Surrender to the team. Six hours in, 10 minutes to go, fully back in my body just because of all the pains waking me up, lower back and shoulders now joining the orchestra of pain of the calves and the thighs, the squishing of my soaked shoes, even my underwear hurting from the friction I tell myself repeatedly: only ten minutes to go. We’re going downhill, I’ve picked up some steam. Around the corner. Another uphill. Damn. I felt strong for the past 20 minutes, the downhill lightening my step. I’m pissed at the uphill, I retreat to a super slow sloth rhythm, slower than ever. I try to surrender to the new rhythm, but spirit has a new lesson in store for me. A hiking buddy takes me under his arm, invites his dog–the most gorgeous cream-colored old soul I’ve ever seen on four legs–to pick up speed ahead to bring us both courage, and offers an uphill rhythm, that is faster than anything I’ve been able to sustain today- or ever. Under his arm, I’m able to lean into his energy, and to my great delight, my legs are able to too, doing what they usually do an hour into my hikes, but today they never did: they move by themselves. I lean into him, his joy, his energy, and my body does the rest, without me even thinking about it. I love when my team can see for me beyond what I see for myself.
Surrender to the journey. The greatest lesson is to surrender to the journey: all of it. Journeys of life. Uphills and downhills, aches and joys, soaked feet and photographs, food and hunger, snails and dogs. The richest journeys are the ones where we savor all of it.