Rhena Writes

Tag: hiking

  • How One Tree Made Itself Known

    Yesterday, my friend Claudia reminded me of the importance of going barefoot. She had a good point. Foot health is important. In Chinese medicine, the whole body including every organ is connected to our feet. When I lived in Thailand, foot massages were a regular part of self care and health, but it’s also a tropical country which meant that I feet were, well, footloose and fancy free. Back here in the US, my dogs spend a good portion of the year wrapped up and cozy. I love winter in my midatlantic region of the States precisely because enjoy a good pair of warm wool socks. I love making warm wool socks. I love buying warm wool socks. And I love wearing warm wool socks.

    But Spring is upon us now and I realized how right Claudia was. My feet had been boxed in. We saw a good amount of snow and ice this year which meant that my feet saw the inside of boots a good amount this year.

    I’ve been getting this one plot of forest-park land in my neighborhood for a few years now with regular walks over the same stretch of ground over and over again. It changes every single morning.

    The other day, I was walking in one area that I’ve probably for too long considered the least remarkable part of my walk. The stream isn’t visible, there’s no real view, and it basically feels as thought it’s just someone’s backyard. But then something unexpected happened that made me take a second look. I was walking past a tree that had already lost its blossom. Which, yes, I’m going to admit that I probably didn’t think it was worth a second glance. I live in an area (the DMV) famous for its cherry blossoms. And I, too, sometimes get so caught up in the spring flowering tree frenzy that I undervalue the trees without showy flowers or the ones that have lost theirs. What can I say? I’m a blossomist.

    And then the other morning, as I was walking by, largely ignoring this post-blossom tree when it touched me. And when I say, “I touched me,” I mean that a branch from this tree that had not been anywhere near my face as I approached, brushed the side of my head as I walked by. I turned around and looked at the tree. And laughed. “Ok,” I thought. “You got my attention.” Said branch? When walked back, I had to reach my hand as far as my arm could reach and lift my heels off of the ground in order to touch its leaves. Nobody can tell me that tree wasn’t trying to initiate contact.

    I’m nearly fifty years old and I had a unilateral mastectomy last year for breast cancer. I know the feeling of being overlooked once my blossoms dropped. The good news is that that tree and I are now besties. And I’m looking at her section of the park in a whole new light.

    So on my morning walk today, I really paid attention to her and her surroundings. What must it be like to live in her part of this world? This required further investigation.

    I furtively glanced around to make sure that I didn’t offend anyone with unshod feet, took off my shoes and socks and carried them across the green carpet of (not grass but) lesser Celandine. (I had to look it up; I’m not able to recognize and name plant species like I once was able to as a kid but I’m working on it and perhaps I’ll even be writing more about plant identification.) In spite of it being called “lesser” (it’s always a competition with western plant naming systems, isn’t it?) this Celandine was lovely, and cushiony, and just a little bit squeaky.

    But there was still just enough of a chill in the air and greenery, that my feet quickly got cold. Thankfully, my wool socks were still warm tucked into my shoes and after a quick dusting off of my soles, I quickly tucked them back in.

    I took a picture of the stretch of ground that I crossed. (My girl is just out of frame in respect for her privacy.)

    The chill, the green, the Earth itself: it’s all very enlivening. Oh, and, of course, my tree friend. My feet were happy to be freed — even for a few moments and just a few dozen steps across the Celandine (nothing lesser about it) and dirt.

    Live action shot of me after my shoeless, sockless morning jaunt.

    (Shout out to my Gen X people who appreciate this reference.)

  • Yes. I’ve been camping.

    Daily writing prompt
    Have you ever been camping?
    View all responses

    … and I’d do it again, but only if my kids really wanted to go camping with me. I enjoy the comforts of my bed, a nearby bathroom and toilet, the climate control, the absence of bugs.

    Don’t get me wrong, there are certain things about camping that I still really enjoy: the simplicity, all the little gadgets and gear, a camp fire, setting up a little patch of space to make it your own, even if it’s just as big as a sleeping bag, the night sky.

    I mentioned before that I went to some very bougie schools. One of them had an outdoor education program on a few acres of land next to Shenandoah National Park. It was pretty bare bones: platform tents with cots, outhouses, a basic shower house. But there was a fully functional kitchen and a classroom building both of which had electricity and running water. Each year, we’d go stay there for up to a week with our classmates and teachers. I spent a few summers there working as a counselor.

    Once, much later on, I went camping for one night with a group of friends. It was much more rustic than that. We basically carried some blankets and beer through a stream and into the woods not too far from where some of them lived. It was nice, but in the morning, I was aching and sore, maybe even slightly feverish. One of the friends we were with had spent a good portion of time living in a jungle in Southeast Asia. He was a refugee and his life was less “camping” and more “surviving” and I assume that this version of staying out overnight in the forest probably looked pretty cushy from his point of view. My whole body ached. “You’re not used to this,” he said by way of explanation as to why I felt sick. And he was right.

    The one time I had come even close to the way he had lived in the jungle, I went to visit an army camp in the jungle on the Thai-Burmese border. For me, the hike up the mountain was difficult. At the top, there were a few bamboo and wood buildings, similar to the ones in the refugee camp where I’d been teaching. I was given a room to myself while the soldiers shared a communal one. I was the only woman at the base at the time. Tired from the walk, I slept well even with just the bare-bones accommodations of a few blankets on the floor. But that wasn’t really camping.

    I’ve taken my kids car camping. They enjoy all the coziness of sleeping together in a family tent where they can explore the myriad zippers and pockets, consider how best to set up their own spaces. And the s’mores too. One time, my daughter carried around the bag of marshmallows the whole time, as if it was a comforting stuffed animal. I think she was rather shocked when we eventually ripped open the bag and roasted the contents over the fire.

    No matter how flat the ground, it always seemed like the few times we went camping with the kids, we’d end up having shifted, rolled, and slid through the night. I felt like the princess and the pea, only it would be a rock or two that I inevitable end up on top of and would feel even through the camping mats. I suppose that enough of these sore and achy mornings and the idea of camping has lost its appeal. Or maybe I am a bit of a princess.

    Over the past year, I’ve had many nights when aches and pains from chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation have disrupted my sleep. I’ve been grateful to have a bathroom (and painkillers) so close by. I spent a small fortune on various pillows and bedding in different shapes and sizes for maximum nighttime comfort. So for right now, I’m glad I’m not sleeping on a forest floor.

    But maybe, JUST maybe… I can begin to imagine a time when my body feels well enough that sleeping directly under the stars, even with a rock in my back, will be all the comfort it needs.