Withdrawl Symptoms
From the moment I got to the park at the beginning of June I adopted an accent. Just a light one and only because I can’t help it. I spent enough time down South as a kid for the rolliness of the words to feel natural in my mouth and truth be told, it feels far more genuine to draaawl out my words than it does to speak in a short. clipped. Northern. Accent. As someone who’s startled by sudden noises, the fluidity of the drawl sets me at ease. By the time I stopped for gas in New Jersey I knew I was officially in the land of the drawl-less.
Thirteen hours after I left Tennessee, I arrived home to Connecticut. It was 3am, my hair was 13 hours worth of windswept, and I was officially sick of all of my cds. The next morning, my Dad, who’s voice was most welcome, greeted me with a book on Lincoln by Gore Vidal and a Lonely Planet guide to the National Parks. Northern Hospitality for the win! I had drinks with my friend Caroline, dinner with family (during which I practiced my Midrash skills by re-telling one of Corrine Stavish’s Jewish folktales), got ice cream with my friend Kelly, and saw my friend Carrie’s band play with Stacy; my bff of almost three decades. All of these things made coming back to civilization not just bearable but joyful!
And yet… I keep thinking about that first hike to The Chimney Tops. The moment when I couldn’t stop laughing and felt so simply, perfectly right where I belonged. That feeling was repeated over the course of the last month as I hiked, performed, and jumped into swimming holes. Whatever I was doing, whoever I was with, I was outdoors and felt no disconnect between myself and the world around me. After two years of devised theater school where we are theoretically weaving our ideas into each other’s ideas and existences, I finally found myself living purposefully and seamlessly within a system I love and admire: The Great Smoky Mountain Range. Don’t get me wrong, the civilized worlds of Philadelphia, Milford, and NYC are also worth my time, love, and energy, it’s just harder here. Harder to stay creative, spontaneous, and joyful. In the parks I feel the call of open space and possibility. Living in the park is the very definition of still waters running deep; there is peace and yet there is constant, mountain activity. Grad school, by contrast, is tidal waves; always active on the surface, just out of reach of something deep, and hard to resist the pull of whatever the larger body wants to do. At best, this kind of lifestyle is democracy. At worst, dictatorship. Usually it’s something in between.
I told all of this to Mom over breakfast the day after I got back. “I know,” she said, “you belong in nature for at least six months of the year. Then you’ll have to come back to civilization because you’ll go equally crazy if you lack access to culture.” She is very wise. “It’s only been two days and I’m already feeling claustrophobic” I said. “Well,” she said, “where’s the nearest park?” My Mom, ladies and gentlemen. And thanks to the Find Your Park campaign, I had a ready answer: Weir Farm in Wilton, CT.
At the first sign of a ranger hat I felt my heart quicken. NATURE. How had both my Mom and I grown up in CT and never been to our one and only NPS site?! We promptly set out on a hike following an arrow for “Nod” because it sounded like the most magical trail. It was wild. Mom, my own personal biologist, told me the names of all the flowers, pointed out all the poison ivy, and spotted a family of turkeys with their turkey babies. Then we got caught in brambles and had to bushwhack our way to the road about a mile from the visitor’s center. I had hiking boots on because I’m Linus and my boots are my safety blanket but my mom was wearing fashion sandals. She’s a trooper. We toured the gardens, strolled around Weir Pond watching fish jump and eating wild blackberries, and found all of the painted bison on the property. Weir Farm also has an AiR program.
Coming home to CT after the park definitely softened the blow of returning to “civilization.” The balance of newness and comfort is being constantly weighed in my world. When I’m away from the comfort of family I miss them deeply in my heart and when I’m with them it’s not long enough to settle into a routine. When I’m away from the newness of adventuring I miss it deeply in my heart and when I’m off exploring it’s not long enough to see and do everything there is to see and do. I am constantly longing. My desire to love all of the people and places I already love and to find those I have yet to love is in constant conflict.
My childhood self may not have liked changed but my adult self is highly mutable. A contemplative, exploratory soul, I seep rather than hurtle into decision making, however, once I make up my mind about something I am unmovable. Given these traits and how strongly I desire to traverse all the disparate paths of the world, tilting back and forth on the scales of adventure and comfort is not such a bad lifestyle. As long as I can keep being grateful in the moment for whatever the scales are tipped to at a given time, I think I can enjoy the ride.
