Sanctuary

About 10 years ago, shortly after I moved to New York City, my mom came to visit for a long weekend.  At the time, I was living with my roommate Dom, a true blue New Yorker and big Yankees fan.  My mom wanted to go to church on Sunday morning, and she asked Dom if he'd like to come along.  He said "No, thank you.  I'm going to stay home and watch the baseball game.  Yankee Stadium is my church."  My mom cringed a bit, probably wondering what kind of pagan situation I'd gotten myself into by moving here.

I laugh at this episode now, because while my mom probably still considers herself someone who has a relationship with God, she's loosened up her practice a bit.  I would venture to guess that her most spiritual moments come when she is fixing her scope on a nest of baby owls, or pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven, or bluegrass jamming with her sisters on Sundays.

This Sunday, I went to visit my own church: the woods.  To me, there is nothing more soul-stirring than waking up early with the birds, jumping into the car (my newest purchase, named Ingrid, a 2008 gray Mazda 3), and heading for the woods.  This morning I set out through the Brooklyn Battery tunnel, up the Henry Hudson Parkway, over the George Washington Bridge, up the Palisades Parkway, radio tuned to WKCR's "Amazing Grace" program, which was playing gospel tunes by Mahalia Jackson, Mavis Staples and Sam Cooke.  I cruised along easily, enjoying the daybreak and the lush hills of the Hudson Valley and arrived at my destination, the Fort Montgomery Historical Site.

The first part of the trail took me along the Popolopen River Gorge.  Just days after storm Andrea hit this area, I thought it would be a watery, muddy mess, so I wore my big girl hiking boots rather than my usual trail runners, which was a good call.  As I slopped through the trail, I could hear and see the fullness of the river gorge next to me, cascading down the mountain.  An iridescent teal dragonfly hovered near me for a while, tiny cerulean butterflies fluttered around, a small garter snake slithered under a rock.  I watched a beautiful great blue heron silently and effortlessly lift off over the gorge.  This, I thought, is exactly where I belong, right now.

After a bit of wandering, I realized a hadn't seen a blaze for a while, so I traced back my steps, looking for the little red dots to show me the way.  When I found them, I realized why I had missed the turn.  This didn't look like a trail at all, it looked like a waterfall.

Note to self: stay alert and look for the blazes.

After the waterfall began the real climb.  The trail gains in elevation gradually for about 45 minutes, but then I crossed over a bridge and the real scramble began.

Now, before I tell you about the climb to the top, I want to let a little light in to the personal cracks in my life.  It's been a tough year.  Last fall, I had a hopeful reunion with Carl, the beloved and confounding on-again, off-again man in my life for the last 8 years.  This spring, we decided to be off-again, and though we've made that choice many times before, for some reason, this time brought with it a whole slew of complicated emotions.  Many relationships end in cases where people love each other, but they have different end goals.  Carl and I were the opposite.  We envisioned the same end goal - we each dreamed of sharing a humble cottage, a life immersed in nature, creating a family - but we stumbled over each other along the way.  Actually, stumbling is too kind.  We kicked each other along the way.  I never fight with people, but man, did I fight with Carl.  Though we shared a deep love, and many moments of connection and care and tenderness, there was always something flammable between us that could ignite at any second.  And so we decided to stop forcing it along.

All this to say that in letting that relationship go, a visitor has moved in, and her name is sadness and she is stubborn.  She has pitched a tent on my chest and doesn't seem to be going away any time soon.  It's astounding to me just how physical emotions can be.  When people say they feel heart-ache, I know they mean it.  I've been carrying now for months this physical sensation of sadness - a ballooning swell of something near my heart and a tightness in my throat.  And even when I'm having a good time, out with my friends, doing the things I love to do, sadness persists in staking out her territory, like she's made herself comfortable and might as well roast a few marshmallows while she's at it.

But now: the climb.  Anyone who has dealt with depression will tell you that staying active and getting outdoors is a great way to cope.  So as I began my ascent up to Popolopen Torne, I hoped that if I just put one foot in front of the other, and focused on my breathing and the path ahead of me, maybe little miss sadness would get lost for a little while.  The trail became quite strenuous then, and I scrambled up the exposed rock side of the mountain, sometimes pulling myself up with my arms while searching for a foothold and gripping the mountain with all my might.  And though I was using all my strength, and pushing through my moderate fear of heights, and climbing upward, upward, that little stinker sadness stayed right where she was.  But in that climb I heard my voice say, "Girl, you are sad, but you are strong."  And I thanked my voice for that.

When I arrived at the top, I was tapped out, sweaty, but feeling exhilarated.  The beautiful Hudson Valley stretched around me 360 degrees, and I felt like a warrior woman.

At the top, I encountered a few strong-looking dudes, presumably West Point cadets from the nearby academy, who invited me to join them in their round of 275 push-ups.  I laughed them off, and the leader joked, "As the strong feminist you are, you should just say no."  Yes sir, no sir.

I sat for a while, enjoying the vista and mid-morning sun, biting into an apple, and marveling at the siren-loud whir of seventeen-year cicadas. 

The hike back down was mercifully meandering and gentle, a kind reward for all the effort I put in the first few miles.  Near the bottom, I came upon Brooks Lake, and hiked the circumference, encountering only a few ducks and fisherman along the way.

Just before arriving back at my car, I came upon this little gem of a public service announcement.  Now, I agree that littering is a terrible, inexcusable offence, but wishing a generational end to this family seems a little extreme, no?  These steely-eyed, flat-bellied hikers don't mess around.

Back at the parking lot, I checked my pedometer and clocked just over 8 miles in about 3.5 hours.  I wolfed down half a bag of trail mix, the chocolate bits now melty from the sun, started Ingrid up, turned on the A/C and turned up a radio station playing the blues and turned my sad, strong self back toward the city.