My afternoon jog
started out promising but fizzled after fifteen minutes. I took one last lap
around a side street, exhaled and paced down to walking. The gray concrete
silently carried me back to my cul-de-sac but I wasn’t ready for home yet. An inviting
dirt road led down away from my house to the woods. The weeds grow tall and
skinny, four wheel tracks criss-cross a cluttered path. My tennis shoes fling
soft dirt into the air and down the back of my socks uncomfortably. I grab my
arm-strapped IPod and scramble to turn the volume down because suddenly the quiet
atmosphere demands my attention. I peer ahead and recognize the large
Spanish-mossed trees that are home to a secret hiding place. I uphill prance to
the leaf-padded ground where a white rope hangs above and an old turned over
grill lay abandoned. I playfully swing on the rope until it hurts my hands. A
black office chair with worn leather sits lonely next to a large wooden spindle
overlooking a small, shy pond. I came here for this. I settle atop the spindle,
careful not to prick my thin running shorts on rusty nails. The IPod turns off.
I take a deep breath and am grateful to be the only one in this place where
houses surround its serenity. I wonder what makes a simple collaboration of
water, trees and grass so peaceful. Is it the silent moving clouds that have a
tint of gold at their edges, a reminder of the imminent sunset? Or the way those
clouds reflect colorfully off the stagnant water? I watch a hawk soar in my
peripheral, landing on the tallest tree with a slight flutter of his enormous
wings. The tree sways beneath his weight, but he is not worried. He adjusts his
wings further and the branches bend without breaking. He looks out onto his
world without a care, while I deny my own world by watching him. I have left my
reality by embracing this peace. I daydream and wish and breathe… just for a
second. I am escaping and it is this pond that tucks me in. This hawk that
watches me. The warmth touches my skin, welcoming me. It is in this place that
I forget all the busyness. The run was methodical, an exercise, a mind-numbing-
music-jamming hobby. But this is different; this is sacred. I stare out and let
the water be part of me, let the breeze hug me. It is only for these few
moments that I have successfully escaped.
Escapism is
no new thing. An audiobook I just finished hangs heavy on my mind. For days I
was immersed in the story of Christopher McCandless, a young man whose death in
August of 1992 sent gossip rippling through the country. We are curious at this
man’s death because he seemed to be one of the few brave souls out there who
truly escaped American life as we know it. He burnt $123 in cash as a statement
to himself that he didn’t need money to survive. He cut ties with his family,
ignoring their desires to keep them informed with his current location. He
hitchhiked. He lived in the woods of Alaska in an abandoned bus. He hunted
moose. Christopher underlined phrases in books by Jack London, further
preaching his “rage against the machine.” His itchy feet could not settle in
civilization, knowing they could reign free in the wild, with trees as
companions and dirt as salve. His words are surprisingly profound, “… (So many
people) are conditioned to a life of security, conformity and conservatism, all
of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more
damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future.” Christopher
had an extreme case of what we all at some point have ached for. The throbbing desire
to escape. To roam free. To kiss goodbye to deadlines and currency, politics
and cubicles. His adventures cost him his life.
Some
criticize Christopher’s decisions understandably, but others applaud his
courage. Not only his courage to live off the land on his own, but his courage
to die alone in the wilderness without ending his life prematurely by his own
weapons laying just inches away. He signed a farewell note and took a final
photo, proudly grinning in the midst of his starvation. It’s like he knew that
his story might inspire others, as devastating as his death was. I listened to
his story from a safe distance, knowing my body would never subject itself to
life in the wilderness for long. But his story intrigued me because I have
known a few people who dance to his beat of the drum.
Our souls cry
out for peace in this crazy world, and most can steal a minute or two here and
there. But there are some amongst us who are too thirsty for adventure to sit
around idly and let opportunities pass them by. I think of hikers who spend an
entire Saturday climbing up a mountain with children packed on their back and
trail mix in hand. Bikers on a trail that spend hours pedaling through tree
canopies, listening to the soft whir of the wheels on pavement. I imagine my
brother Philip and his wife Loralee camper-vanning in New Zealand, capturing
pictures and film of the gorgeous terrain stretched before them. They are brave
and they have taken the plunge, preaching a message of “You can do this too” to
anyone who asks. With a few sacrifices and two willing spirits, they forage
through foreign lands hand in hand. I think of office workers who bring their
sandwiches and chips to the bench outside, soaking up a few minutes of sunshine
and fresh air on their lunch break. I think of moms who lie their sleeping
child down for a nap and settle into the couch with coffee and a book to steal
into the silence that is so desperately coveted.
We all have
the desire to escape. Some are awarded more time than others. When you find
your moment- pursue the beauty. The peace. And when the hunger to find that
place comes bubbling up inside of you again- may you be brave to embrace it.
---------------
For more information about Christopher McCandless: the following website is dedicated to his story.
Book review in article was for "Into the Wild" written by Jon Krakauer.
