Right path.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

When Death Comes, Mary Oliver

I’m not sure where I’m going, where my compass is pointing if you will. I have to believe—nay, I believe—that the road will become clearer as I head into this inky future. Yes, it holds mother—of kids who don’t need me the same ways they once needed me (but still need me because when do we ever stop needing our Moms?)—it holds wife, educator, it holds sister and friend. But as a person adding quantifiable value to the world, what is it? Do I have to make money on whatever it is to feel legitimacy or personal validation?

I’m not doing anything particularly remarkable, and I do do certain things with varying levels of trepidation. Aren’t most things worth doing like that? When I ran my first trip to Yosemite, I was hopeful and scared when I pushed go. I was still high on that magical granite-filled valley from my first experience several months earlier and I dreamt of creating a space where others might experience it too. I hoped, in that unspeakable, intangible way energy travels, that mine had traveled to ten or so women who would come with me. I thought to myself as I entered through Wawona Tunnel for the first time—and I mean it—that being in places like this will save us.

So when, several months later, I sat at a table outside some shops at a place in town called the Tannery and opened my trip for bookings, I held my breath, and hoped beyond hope that I was on the right path. And when it filled up before I even got home, I was shocked, delighted, in awe. Joy in human form. Floating.

Okay, right path—so far.

Since then, I’ve done a few more. I’m learning as I go. What works, what doesn’t work. How many people feel like the sweet spot, and what activities really get people to know one another.

The big answer to that last one: moving together. Nothing brings people together like moving together does.

My favorite night on my hiking retreats is night two. It’s a marked difference. Night one, everyone arrives with some nerves. I pour some wine. Serve alongside some cheese. Show everyone to their rooms to put down their stuff. Everyone’s volume is low. They’re a little stiff, scared, wondering what they signed themselves up for. The next day we hike, and we hike for awhile. We’re moving alongside one another up a mountain, moments of eye contact but mostly looking down at the roots and rocks so we don’t twist our ankles. Conversation flowing, interrupted by stream crossings, water breaks, by a clear spot in the trees where we get to see a small portion of the views that await us at the top. The order keeps changing. Some take the front, get tired, go a little slower, always shifting, and everyone talks to someone different. People get vulnerable. I am delighted.

Night two is where the day’s mountain magic comes into clear focus. Where there’s ease and comfort and referencing mishaps from the day with laughter and so much joy. Volume is higher, sometimes exuberant.

Right path.

At this point, I’m just taking the next right step. Wondering how it takes shape. What it’ll look like in five or ten years, I’m not sure. I’m following my joy and seeing where it leads. I’m curious and interested and amazed. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.