I am going to share with you today an introductory blog story about blisters, infinite worlds, and childhood hiking expeditions that may seem rather irrelevant to the big picture or the busy, fast-paced world we live in. It’s not that blisters are memorable in and of themselves, but sometimes it is the littlest of things that remain in our memories long after the pains and joys of growing up fade. First, I want to encourage you to think on the notion that we humans seem to come back around to the same places, metaphorically speaking, time and time again... blisters notwithstanding. Sometimes we return simply because we have yet to gather some deeper understanding and we find ourselves caught or suspended in this place once more. Still other times, we return and find that we are entirely changed. We may be in the same woods, the foundations of who we are, but we find that those forests grow dense and altered. I bring this up now because no matter how many times we return to these places, or memories, or blisters of old, there is a deep resonance with where we are now, where we came from, and how we got here. Our perspectives shift all the time, and we hold within our capacity the ability to look back on old memories with refreshed understanding. There is a certain raw beauty involved with growth, with discovering self, and the permeating sense of communication we cultivate from the maps of all the places we have been and have yet to go. On the topic of blisters once more...

Some of my fondest memories were as a young girl, growing up in rural Maine and enjoying family trips to Moosehead Lake all year long. All of my early recollections hold in common a deep appreciation for and awareness of nature. There was no sense of abstract time in my childhood. Days were for enjoying, lakes were for swimming, the grass was for tickling the soles of bare feet, camping outside was for admiring a smattering of distant stars in a sky so astoundingly vast. Nothing had to be scheduled, only welcomed into the day. I could spend whole days outside, lost not in body but in my mind, where stories tended to unfold deliciously with the natural world for inspiration.

I can draw forth now the image of one particular camp trip with its’ usual excitement, the long car ride, the music emanating from the truck speakers. On one such occasion, around ten years old or so, I remember we made plans to hike Mt. Kineo. There was always a lot of excitement that went into hiking Kineo since we would take a motorboat to reach the banks of this lovely emerald peak. The whole trip there the mountain would stare with ancient eyeless expectancy, or perhaps more likely the many stares of its’ watchful inhabitants.

By the time we would reach the bank, everyone was eagerly spilling out of the boat, mooring, and dividing out the backpacks strategically. By the time we were well on our way around the winding bluff, there was always a charged excitement on my behalf to get to my favorite part of hiking; the plotting and planning of stories in my head. For as long as I can remember, my strongest mode of communicating with and interpreting the world has been through words. These early stories, though often long forgotten, left lasting impressions of who I was and who I one day hoped to be. Words, characters, and worlds spun from the well of imagination, possibility, and the desire to connect with the world in some meaningful way made up a large portion of my quiet, introspective playtimes.

By the time my stories had begun to unfold on this hiking excursion and the mountain had begun to grow steeper, there was a nagging blister on my right heel. It grew in intensity until every chaffing motion was hard to ignore. I eventually stopped, angry and distracted with the slow, limping progress and the annoyance of this seemingly meager blister. By now it was a gigantic entity sucking me out of that creative place. By the second break, I decided the only course of action, much to the chagrin of my parents, was to remove my socks and shoes entirely. I stowed them in my backpack and continued on. At this point, it would be a lie on my behalf to tell you there was no complaining involved. I’m rather certain there was, though, like the stories, these details did not stick with me into the present.

I grumbled for a while until I began to realize that the sensation of dirt, brush, and roots was not altogether an unpleasant experience. Instead, I began to tune in to the feeling of toes against the earth and the connection that came in doing so. I was not just hiking the mountain now, I was part of it. Now, you might pause here to say wait a minute, that’s a rather wild idea. But let me briefly explain that in my ten-year-old imagination, and still resolutely with me to this day, is the sense of unity and joy I found at being ungoverned in this way. Just by taking my shoes off, the door to the natural world and the creative one inside me seemed to merge. The hike proceeded with a greater sense of connection and resolution to never forget just how close we as humans are to the natural world. I felt that most acutely on that particular day, and I can still close my eyes and envision it now.

By the time we had reached the peak and climbed to the top of the infamous metal tower, there was a great sense of achievement. Not in the regular sense so much as in the acceptance that we cannot make our blisters disappear, but there is always our animate ability to shift perspective and see the importance of the trek itself. The power to return to places we’ve been not with the same eyes but with a deeper sense of understanding. Communication is like a blister at times. We stumble over words. Sometimes the frustration that the words don’t feel the same as they do when you conjured them is as acutely annoying as a physical wound. Sometimes words feel raw, chaffing, overused, dissolute. But ultimately, life and communication are rewarding not for the ending point, but the journey you took to arrive at some great peak or story. That hike lives on in my heart and my imagination, fueling the fire of creativity and desire to communicate and connect deeply.