A Reason to Return

On walking old roads with new shoes and the ritual of reimagining

Last summer, I wrote a reflection on social media about my love of traveling, specifically my time spent on the Isle of Skye in Scotland in July 2022. I posted:

“One year ago today I spent a chilly, rainy, mist-soaked day hiking The Fairy Pools in Glen Brittle on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. No filters are needed for this otherworldly landscape. Often, when you dream of being in a place for so long, it's to be expected that it will disappoint you once you actually arrive. Mismatched dreams and realities can break your heart a little, especially when they happen over and over again.

The Fairy Pools were better than I could have imagined. The keen saturated green of the grasses, hard to capture on film; the less definable fog over the distant peaks beckoning me to keep climbing into the clouds, resisting the permanence of a photograph; the icy cold white foam gush of the pools themselves and how sacred it felt to plunge my hands into the water and touch my freezing fingers to my face, a baptism of my own making in the Highlands.

The skirt I wore on this hike got soaked with Scottish rain this day, and I still relish in this knowledge of the extraordinary moments woven into the fabric whenever I have worn it since. My curls matted to my head under the alpaca hat I had purchased on the island just that morning, perpetually wet with the mist that permeated every molecule of that early July afternoon. I was crestfallen to realize that we would not have time to climb to the horizon before our driver arrived at the car park to take us back to our inn to dry off, warm up, and eat dinner. So, we said that this finite time at the Pools was all the reason to come back: to leave something undiscovered for next time.

I'm still dreaming about making it to that horizon, my body flexing with the memory of making my way over that ancient, rugged terrain. Of being under that big sky that stayed light so long that it didn't surrender to show its stars until well past midnight. Of letting that Highland rain once again soak my skin, reminding me that just when it feels like there is nothing new to knock you back and astound you, a mountain rises up from nowhere and dares you to ascend to something absolutely astonishing.

Wishing you all a reason to return to a place that has held your heart in its hands. May you leave something undiscovered for next time.”

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I’ve grown grateful for the chance to return to places that have inspired deep joy and adventure. Still, the notion of returning, of considering life as a perpetual series of cycles, is one I resist more often than not, especially when it involves revisiting places and people that have historically brought me pain and hardship. I try to hold compassion for these mixed feelings of mine. Honestly, who willingly welcomes a second helping of heartache or discomfort, when the first course was more than filling?

Like many perceptions we have as humans, my feelings about returning go back to childhood. When I was young, I imagined life as a board game, where you move from one space to the next. Moving forward required only the near effortless roll of a pair of dice; no blood, sweat and tears required. You began at Point A, and depending on the game, eventually ended up at the finish line, even if it took a few hours and squabbling with siblings in the interim. Sure, there might be a plot twist or two along the path: an undesired journey backwards down a gumdrop slide, or an ill-timed pause after an accidental tumble into a fudge swamp (I was a Candyland fanatic, what can I say?). Such setbacks had the potential to set off tears and tantrums. How would I ever catch up to my sister, especially after being stuck in the fudge swamp for three rolls of the dice? In the end though, I would always play until I got to the finish line, even if I ended up there last.

Like a board game, I got a sense that in life, the path was always forward. The worthiest, most worthwhile goals were farther, higher. The future lay untouched, out of sight. There was an order of operations to things. It was simple and straightforward, if somewhat predictable. For many of us, the notion of life we were taught looked like a ladder:

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of these goals (many of which I share a desire for). What does feel less than supportive though, is the idea that we must always move forward to achieve them, forever seeking to escape where we came from in order to get to where we are going, never to look back. We are taught that finding meaning requires us to continually shed who and what and where we’ve been, pushing ourselves to greener pastures at all times. U-turns are not acceptable. In our culture (and there are many cultures where this is not the case), we are taught that it not an option to go back and revisit a rung from before. Seasonality is somehow second class. If we do find ourselves falling backwards (or diving headfirst) down the gumdrop slide for a trip down memory lane or out of a desire to revisit and rearrange something for the love of it, shame and unworthiness arise. We can’t justify a good enough reason to return.

In The Perpetual Visitor: A Field Guide for Everyday Artists, I sketched what I wished a life map might look like. No more ladders. I crave a rich wood in which we could freely wander about, seeking out new spaces and looping back to meaningful vistas anytime we wanted to. No feelings of shame or failure required.

If I was re-sketching this, I’d add a cave of sorrow, a maze of lostness, and a meadow of mystery to this map. No journey (or life) will ever be without its discomforts and dark nights (or years) of the soul.

Little by little, I’m doing my best to unclench my fists and open my mind and heart to the rhythm of return. To my credit, I’ve been doing it with my favorite books and films forever; I much prefer returning to a well-worn beloved story again and again (especially when I’m feeling low) rather than watching something brand new. I don’t need to feel guilt or shame for doing so. Returning to well-loved experiences can be a balm for my sometimes bruised heart.

In other ways though, I still struggle with the notion of returning: when I am chasing down a dream again and again and again, only to fall down harder each time, doubting that I can (and want to) ever get up and risk having my hope smashed again; when I consider revisiting a previous friendship I thought was long concluded; asking myself “What if…?” about physical places I said I would never go back to. I’m doing what I can to not see cycling through these already-experienced seasons as proof that I’ve made no progress at all, but rather evidence that I’m still out here, stumbling around, reinventing. Eyes stinging with tears, but still open.

It’s hard. It hurts like hell sometimes. It doesn’t feel like “enough” in moments of overwhelming lostness, and yet for the moment, it has to be enough. I’m doing what I can to leave the ladder and instead, walk around the landscape of my life without punishing myself for taking too long on any given path. I have gorgeous places I dream of getting to, and panic starts to set in when I must admit that I don’t know if I’ll ever make them manifest before the sun sets. At the same time, I no longer want to get mad at myself for retracing steps along the way while I wait for a new day to arrive so that I can try again. Sometimes when I find myself having just walked myself into a circle, I still feel furious and I practice letting that rage reside in me at the same time as I try to inhale peace around what is. Other times, repeats and returns are by choice, and beautiful, and I feel a glow of gratitude for the opportunity to see second chances through slightly new eyes. To reimagine and reinvent what was into what is and what could be.

We welcome the return of the crocus every spring, accepting the departure of its purple petals as each May nears. Do we spurn the sight of a flower arriving and arising once again the following March? Do we wonder why it returns and announce that we never wish to see it bloom, not ever again? We would likely not refuse this seasonal gift, and yet, we shrink away from revisiting something familiar yet fresh in the cycles of our own lives, deeming it "done".

Like walking a labyrinth, what if returning could offer an opportunity to slow down, however begrudgingly, and serve as an invitation to redo our steps? Just as many spiritual practitioners engage with labyrinth walking as a form of prayer and meditation, I wonder how I might give myself permission to both grumble and go on, stubborn step by stubborn step, being just the slightest bit more open to believing that there might be some insights gleaned from going on in this way?

What if?

After all, few roads are ever unchanged, and even when I’ve tread them before, I have to remind myself that I am wearing different shoes this time around.

For what it’s worth, when you are climbing a ladder, you cannot climb besides anyone else, really, because there’s no room for two on any given rung. The very nature of climbing encourages us to be invisible to one another, and this false sense of isolation makes the artificial ascent feel even more urgent and precarious. We experience it alone, often only glimpsing others as benchmarks to measure our own growth and joy and strength against. Comparison, not community.

One of the things I love most about the image of leaving the ladder and walking about the woods, looping back again and again, is our ability to find each other amidst the trees. While envisioning a different way to move through my life in The Perpetual Visitor, I wrote, “we can choose to come together in that age old circle of community and tell stories; stories of what we are feeling, stories of adventures, joys, setbacks, and the dreams we hold in our hearts. We can collect sticks, branches, and boughs along the way and use them to start a campfire…the darkness will always be there, but we have the power to ignite the blaze that can keep our faces to the light, even when the sun disappears for the night. The ancients knew the power of the campfire and we can offer ourselves the gift of rediscovering and reclaiming it as well. Even when you can’t see the others in the forest, we are always here. I'll see you out there.”

I’m still out here - though my torch does go out from time to time.

Dear readers, may you find ways to show yourself grace and mercy on the roads that you walk tonite, whether or not they are new to you or are furious grooves you’ve paced a thousand times.

May you discover just a little more patience if you find yourself back in a place you never wished to visit again.

May you have the imagination to consider what new detail there might be to notice and to nurture you as you move along.

We are all out here together, boldly journeying on with sometimes broken, often tender spirits.

We shelter against the North winds in the soft pines when we must, when we feel so raw with worry or grief that we are certain that our hearts are held precariously in our own two shaky hands, only a moment from falling to the ground and breaking for good (we fear).

We sense the rhythm of the return and journey through, knowing that just as we can never truly leave suffering behind, neither can joy be truly lost. She hides in the treetops, like a featherlight fairy, waiting to dash out when we pass this place again (and chances are, we will pass this place again) and delight us with possibility that we didn’t see when we passed by the first time, because it didn’t exist then. Sometimes, we must retrace our steps and return in order to refine, redefine, and reimagine all things, ourselves included.