I just completed a solo hike a couple of weeks ago at Cheaha State Park on the Chinnabee Silent Trail. The trail, rocky and rooty, started by following a stream as it tumbled down a series of small waterfalls. The sounds of the water accompanied me until the trail climbed up and away from the stream.
The next portion of the trail was a meander through a hardwood forest, a thick layer of leaves littering the path. I was not a silent hiker on the Chinnabee Silent Trail. I would startle no bears or axe murderers.
Hiking in winter through hardwoods is so very different from a hike during any other time of year. With the trees completely shed of their leaves, I would have been able to see the bears and axe murderers from quite a distance had there been any.
I could also seen the topography of the forest. Through the sparse tree trunks, I could make out the gently rolling land, the ridges and valleys, and even the outline of the trail well ahead of me as it cut into a hillside.
Oh, to know the topography of a life before it unrolls! To be able to see the ridges and valleys in the distance might be a blessing. Or maybe a curse.
Would you want to know what lay ahead of you in the future? It may prepare you for what lies ahead so that you can gather your courage and create a plan in advance. Then again, it may terrify you, and you would dissolve into a puddle of fear or pre-grief. Or if the future looked shiny and bright, you might not be as delighted if it were a surprise.
This is all just an exercise in what-if. Of course we can’t know what our future holds. And it’s probably for the best.
I was deeply moved by the 2016 movie, “Arrival,” when it came out. In it, a linguist must decipher a mysterious alien language. She eventually discovers that their language is not linear, rather, the it is read and understood as a whole. The aliens’ live their lives this way too, experiencing the entirety of their lives at all times. The linguist eventually is able to live this way as well, knowing the future and the past along with the present.
This concept struck me and stopped me in my tracks. If I had prior knowledge that my husband, Harvey, would be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of fifty, would I have still chosen to marry him and create a family and life together? Yes, I think I would.
Our life before his diagnosis was beautiful, and I would not trade that for anything. And although it was very difficult, I did come out of the other side of the trauma with gratitude for what I learned and how it shaped me. Harvey’s diagnosis had few redeeming qualities for him, but I am grateful that he had me, and that I had him, to navigate that journey together.
Just like the topography of the land that I experienced at Cheaha, when viewed as a whole, my life has been, is, and will be, a wondrous, powerful, and meaningful one.