|I drew this when we were taking a|
break from the trail in Sacramento.
For a solid week, I just couldn’t think about the trail. I couldn’t bear it. Thinking about it, or talking about it, or trying to write about it, made me feel weary, almost sick.
But a few days ago, I decided to try to drag some words out of myself as I picked up my worn notebook that holds sentence fragments representing all my PCT memories. I set down the book to use for reference. I opened my computer document that holds the massive expansion of those scratched-down words.
Two hours later, coming out of a sort of trance, I saw that I had written over 7,000 words. I had barely covered three days of trail. The pages were full of memories that were locked up inside me: conversations, insecurities, funny memories, incredible views, blisters and shin splints, and trail angels who gave us more than we could ever hope to repay. I felt emotionally exhausted, and went straight to bed.
Hope filled my heart that night, and has stayed with me as I spend a bit of time each day working on my journal. I still don’t know if I’m writing something anyone else will want to read, but I reassure myself that now I know that one person, at least will want to read it: me.
And that’s more than I could have said a week ago.