The best experiences never let you go.

I've been back from the wilderness, more specifically Algonquin Provincial Park, for two weeks now.

Never have I done something as physically strenuous as this trip.  Fourteen women arrived at the park together, threw 40-50 lb packs onto our backs, put canoes in the water and set out to find a story, an adventure, a change of name.

To live simply has always been a lifestyle that's called to me, but often my attempts at living it out get cluttered and distracted (just take a look at my Mac desktop and you will be fully convinced of my disorganized tendencies).  Writers like Nouwen, Thoreau, Wendell Berry, Michael Pollan-- they all touch something in my heart that craves the minimal.  Maybe it's because deep down I am convinced that to really be effective in doing anything worthwhile on this planet and to impact humanity in some small way, with the short lease of life I've been given, it is essential to get rid of lifestyle excess.  There is a unique experience of grace and joy that comes when the unnecessary leaves.

In one week I'll be leaving for a large city, taking classes at a new school, working at a new cafe, navigating a new system of public transportation.  The trip I took into the woods was planned far ahead of any knowing of a pending move, yet it came at the perfect time, almost serving as a cleansing from all the craziness of the last two years. I went in need of courage, in need of fresh vision, in need of childlike wonder.  

As we set out on the water, I noticed how the fresh air filled my lungs, making breathing an act to pay attention to, remembering the miracle of each breath in, each breath out.  As I write this, I am remembering my Nanny and how she would have celebrated her 93rd birthday just a few days ago.  I am remembering how a year and a half ago, I sat in a hospital room on what would have been her ninety-one and a half celebration of life, and how in those early morning hours I had the honor of watching a beautiful soul take that final breath of transition that leads you into what the living will always see as a great unknown.  An unknown that raises questions that sometimes produce anxiety until you just learn how to trust-- until you learn how to value each breath as sacred, surrendering the why questions, surrendering the temptation to shape theology around brokenness and disappointments.

The first two days of the trip were difficult emotionally.  I found myself escaping into daydreams, which has been my tendency since childhood, searching for a safe place in my mind for warmth, security, the comforts of life, internet access, text messages.  I started thinking of all the things left undone back home, regretting my decision to go on such an intense trip when I had so many other things to get done. It produced anxiety as I struggled to be present in the moment, to fully immerse my heart, my mind, my body in the experience.

Yet something happened the third day, a crazy baptism of sorts.  I was able to fully transition into being where I was without a desire for escape.  What came from that transition was a clearing out of all the clutter in my mind, all the anxious thoughts, all the fears of failure and questions as to whether I have what it takes for the changes coming in my life.  I found myself, for one of the first times in two years, able to think confidently about my future, believing that even in the midst of such loss over the last two years, Love does chase us down with goodness and mercy every single moment of every single day.

So here's to a new beginning, a fresh start, new eyes, a new way of being.

Here's to now, to today, to this minute, this second...to learning how to breathe in deep.

Something I journaled on October 19, 2011, in the midst of a really painful season for my family.



Maybe we are in search of answers to the wrong questions.  Maybe the wrong questions arise from a misunderstanding of life's tensions, and an improper perspective.  Maybe the right questions lead to answers that just produce more questions, demanding new levels of trust in the midst of mystery that lacks answers to the "why"s.

It's in the trenches, the valleys-- just you and Jesus-- where things get sorted out.  I'm learning that I am responsible for carrying and watching over the fire God's given me.  No one else can do that for me.  People can encourage me, but they can't dream for me.  They can't walk out the dreams God has placed in my heart.  Dreaming is an intimate thing, and believing what God has spoken is true must come from my own heart, placing all my faith in Him and not another.

Life can't be planned out.  Ever.  But my spirit should always be prepared.  Nothing that happens in life can subtract from the history I've built with God.  Nothing that happens can convince me that God is not faithful.  He is good, all the time.

"Simplify, Simplify."

It just turned 11:11 here in Chicago.  Make a wish. Done. 

                     

Tomorrow I leave the comforts of a bed, a pillow, a bathroom, internet, cell service, warm water -- in exchange for an oversized backpack, a canoe, a change of clothes, a few toiletries, some food, a mug that also serves as a bowl, a spoon-fork (ever used one of those?!), a tent, a sleeping bag.  Oh.  And a journal, for my obsessive thought recording habit.  It’s a problem.  

Gain often comes disguised as loss, or so I hope.  As I head up into the beautiful Canadian wild, my heart has the idealistic expectations of one who's read Thoreau a bit too much. There is a deep wish that the leaving behind of comfort will produce a gain in perspective and focus.  

I flew to Chicago with so many questions, anxious over pending decisions that need to be made and worried that I will forever feel disconnected from my heart when it comes to knowing what to do.  I watched from above as a lightning storm broke out to the left of the plane.  It was incredible, and I felt present. I forgot for a moment the possible scenarios of my next life transition, and instead just watched in awe at the flashing, nature-made lights.  

Overstimulation and easy access to information and possibilities take their toll when not counteracted with an active pursuit of heart steadiness and peace.   Hearts are left with empty places that were once full.  But the happy thing is that they just need a reminder-- a lesson in wonder -- to start filling up again.  On my way here my dad called me to wish me a safe trip, in which he wrapped up the conversation with a request, “Caitlin, be surprised by joy.” 

So here I am, about to sleep my last night in a comfortable bed before the trip begins, happy that I noticed 11:11 on the clock, happy that I was present to the child-like fun of making a wish, happy to be going directly into lung nourishing air and wonder-restoring beauty.  

And expectant that what seems like loss has a way of turning into strength.  

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.” 
― Thoreau, Walden