Time Travel Orientation (part 1)

It was supposed to be one a excursion ordained to reset my inner self.  A challenging trip that would stretch my mind and body enough to remind my spirit it was indeed still alive.  Something was calling me forward, empowering me to respond to my trials with new hope.  As I set out, ready to seize each refreshing moment as my own, only one response came rushing from deep within my heart toward my lips—“%$!&}! *!;$%#!” plus other related swear words!

I had carved out vacation time, chose my destinations, and made plans to allow plenty of time for some restful wandering.  I was sure a vacation like this would remedy my chronic weariness from the year past.  I decided to go on three day trip along the coast to hike portions of the Oregon Coast Trail, stopping to enjoy however many beaches, lookouts and Lighthouses seemed right.  I was so certain my mini expeditions would provide those healing moments I so desperately needed.  The breathtaking panoramic views awaiting me would somehow help me to see beyond my grief.  So, when the clouds refused to lift and the fog thickened I threw an embarrassing internal temper tantrum! 

Maybe it was because I was still recovering from two demoralizing ventures from months earlier.  The elation after reaching the summit of Mt. Hood the year prior had faded, so I decided to take some friends up for another attempt. While I knew one is always at the mercy of the mountain on a climb like Hood, I simply refused to accept the possibility of having to turn back.  I needed to summit.  I needed to behold the vista that would somehow remind me how worth my journey through pain and grief would be.  At the summit I thought I would receive the reason for me to continue, trusting its truth in spite of the suffering it might require.  At the start, I felt energized.  It was a dark and beautiful night to be with the mountain.  But with each step up, the snow grew softer and deeper.  The wind whipped her icy defiance more fiercely as we surged upward.  Before we knew it, an otherwise clear night gave birth to an unruly flurry and her blinding fog promised to end our attempt.  This happened twice.  The fog ruined two great attempts, which made this coast trip even more important.

On my first morning, Cleo and I began a hike through the coastal wilderness to greet the day at an old lighthouse. The lighthouse stood tall atop some of Oregon’s highest cliffs along the coast.  I awoke feeling invincible. I quickly packed up camp, called for Cleo and headed out. It was warm and sunny.  The day and the trail was ours! 

While nothing kept Cleo from sprinting up the hills and swerving around muddy switch backs, my pace slowed with every mile.  My disappointment increased with the elevation as the warm sunlight was suddenly muted by clouds and a blanket of fog was dropped over the wilderness.  This was no usual morning haze.  Towering trees standing just yards ahead appeared unexpectedly from within the fog like the forest’s magic tricks.  Just beyond them—only white nothingness.  I kept walking so as to keep up with Cleo, hoping she would avoid a dangerous turn and pause at my call.  At times I’d reach the crest of a hill and be drawn to a look out point off the trail.  I could hear the waves coming to shore beyond and below, but could see nothing. As I continued, the trees dropped the prior night’s dew and I looked up, but couldn’t even see the branches showering me from above.  It was as if I was in a dream world.  My vision was but a sensory tease offered by the fog.  But, I slowly pushed forward and finally made it to the top where it seemed to be more clear.

The weathered lighthouse dominated the cliff side.  It an was interesting sight, but I’d come this far to see what it could see!  We bounced off the trail toward the edge.  I peered over the rail eager to see the tide crashing into the rocks below, to find seagulls and other shorebirds gathering for breakfast, to be comforted by Creation’s wonder; but I was still stuck in this foggy dream world. The water and rocks were no where to be found.  At first, the ocean’s roar below seemed real enough, but the fog soon enveloped my senses.  I stared numbly into the frosty abyss. Everything went silent and faded to white as though nature’s symphony wasn’t worth finishing and the artist gave up on his painting half way through. 

Then, like a violent clap of thunder or cannons firing beneath me, the waves crashed into the rocks below with such tenacity my trance was broken. Yet, the sudden sound was still only enough to remind me of how little I could see.  I sat for a while on the ground feeling defeated, watching tourists experience the disappointment I could have announced to them in advance.  Score another one for the fog.           

I lied to a first time Oregon traveler at the lighthouse.  I assured him the fog would lift as afternoon approached; and it may have for him.  All I know is it followed me for the rest of my trip.  Up and down highway 101, multiple days, this fog ruined each stop.  Every beach, every view point was overtaken by it.  My temper tantrum turned into solid resentment. 

I had prayed hours before, wholeheartedly pleading for God to speak and move in my time of solitude.  How could this trip end up being one more symbol of my weariness, my failing, flailing way forward in life.  Was this some kind of joke?  Where is God?  At least tell me where am I? 

I’d chalk it all up to bad luck if the fog and I didn’t have such history together.  If you’ve ever experienced a profound loss and you’ve managed to get up the morning after and somehow the next days after that, you know it too. It’s what you feel when someone genuinely wants to know how you’re doing and you take a genuine moment for self reflection to answer because you desperately need someone to know how you really are, but you can’t see your reflection—only fog.  You can feel the past as though it is still happening, but it’s still a fog.  Fog in the present and certainly nothing but fog ahead of you. 

Now, I had visited the mountain and most of my coast destinations before. I knew the trips well enough to trust in the healing power and presence I’d discovered there in the past.  I thought my life source was there waiting for me, promising the refreshed ability to finally dream about my future.  Ironically, it was actually my past I most desired to change on these hikes. 

Of course, one cannot change actual events already transpired.  But, I believe in our mysterious ability, perhaps responsibility, to change the way we experience our past.  In doing so, we revisit the people, places, even specific circumstances that have been most painful.  We face memories that have exercised the most power over us in the present.  Once there, we might begin a slow walk into the fog and consider a gentle work of excavation.  It is a process, a suspicious one at that.  And there is no denying the intensity of this potentially dreadful work.  In fact, it’s often best left alone, because once in the middle of it, we may very well realize the process itself desires to become our sole vocation in life.  Still, if the time is right and you’ve been graced with enough patience and presence to begin, there is usually much past-transformation to be done.  However and wherever we are able to start, the work is best sustained with a certain meekness, a forgiving sense of humor and very little expectation. 

I’d like to think this time travel is something different than claiming the cliché about hindsight being twenty-twenty.  What if what we still don’t see about back then and all of what we still can’t see now is where we must remain for a time in order to continue?  I’m told the fog has a way of lifting eventually.  But, while it’s there and it seems we can’t do anything about it, perhaps the real call is for us to learn to pay attention to ourselves within it.  I wonder if we can eventually change our present experience of the past, finally discover a way to be whole heartedly present in the present, and reclaim our way of being in the future when we finally welcome the reorientation of our senses.  As for me, the reorientation can only continue if I confess once again that I cannot always guide myself through the fog.