Hello dear ones,

It has been very hot this past week where I live, and my body has been needing much Horizontal Time in the afternoons and evenings, away from screens or books or stimuli.

If the air had been cooler, my body would have responded differently.

This seems obvious, doesn't it? (You might be wondering why I even wrote that.) 

Yet these two observations illustrate a truth which has been at the root of multiple a-ha moments for me across my Root Living years. A remembrance that keeps spiraling back with new depth:

Our bodies are always responding to their environments.

Just like the dandelion seeds. Just like the jumping worms. Just like “parasites.”

One of my first felt-sense knowings of this sentiment took place in snowy March of 2019 with nearly-30-year-old Rebecca:

I was overcome by grief and shock and unable to tackle the momentous task in front of me: to plan and shop for all the food I'd need for an 800-mile thru-hike.

I hadn't planned mileage, no idea how far I'd walk each day. No idea how one begins such a task. 

And I only had one week until I left for Arizona. 

But my best friend just died and I didn't get to talk to her during the last 10 months of her life. I hadn't known she was going to die this winter, that the cancer was this bad. I'd been overseas when I received the text.

Recently returned to Wisconsin, I was in my parents’ home and it wasn't a safe place to express these emotions freely. 

One day I was feeling especially grey, tears falling, sitting at my desk facing the window. I pulled the hood of Matt's sweatshirt on to cover my head–the baggy item of clothing still a comfort, even though it had been over six years since we'd parted ways.

I heard slow steps and a knock on my half-open bedroom door. It was dad.

My body constricted. 

I wiped tears and snot away on the sweatshirt sleeve, turned my head just enough to acknowledge him.

He asked some banal question, and I gave a brief answer.

“Are you sick?” he asked, upon hearing my voice.

I wanted to disappear. 

Am I sick?

“No, I'm sad because Cathleen died,” I said, clenching my tears and throat, wishing I hadn't had to say this aloud.

Every second of his presence felt like an intrusion. 

He nodded his head.

“Mm-hmm.”

And then he slowly backed up and walked away.

I can't remember another time I'd told my dad I was sad.

~~~

I got the shopping done, praising myself tremendously each step of the way.

Driving to the grocery store. You're amazing.

Pushing my large cart down the aisles. You're doing an incredible job.

A friend came over to help me turn my grocery haul into six resupply boxes. We ripped open bulky packaging and dumped the contents into lightweight ziplock bags. 

She labeled them with a Sharpie, so I'd know which meals were inside.

Later on trail, I'd be beyond delighted to find inspiring quotes and encouragement in my friend's handwriting, all over my food bags.

~~~

Two days before I left, my grandma called. 

“You're not going alone, are you?” she asked in fear, in disbelief.

Yes, I am. (And I don't have the slightest ounce of energy to convince you I'll be safe and okay, but I will be.)

A day later my grandpa (other side of family) called and asked “Who are you going with?”

The call ended with his warning, “Be very safe.”

I know it was fueled by love, but everywhere I turned, I saw fear, fear, fear, fear, fear drenched all around. 

I barely had energy to get out of bed each day, but I also had to pack six resupply boxes and a bag, and get on a bus to Chicago and then an overnight train to Arizona. And then somehow get from Flagstaff to the trail's southern terminus, which is not on any bus route.

That was enough to carry.

These fears around me were too much, depleting me further than I could possibly go. The comments made me feel so utterly alone.

Doubts, fear, doubts, fear. It's all I saw and could sense around me.

~~~

A day before I left, I met my older brother at a café for about an hour. When we parted ways, he said something like “It'll all be good.” 

And while we hadn't discussed the grief I was experiencing, and while he didn't understand the ins and outs of why I was doing what I was doing, I held tightly to those words of assurance. 

It'll all be good.

Two days later, on the other side of a bus ride and a 31-hour train ride, I was in a friend's shared apartment while she was at work. She crew led for a conservation corps, which is where she had met her housemates Jake and Hannah.

Jake was playing guitar in the living room when I went out to the kitchen.

“Oh hey!” he greeted me. “What brings you to Flagstaff?”

“I'm gonna hike the AZT.”

“Oh cool, a buddy of mine is hiking it right now,” he said.

“Oh really? When did he start?” I inquire, hoping I've chosen a good week to start.

“She started two weeks ago,” he said, correcting my gender-assumption.

“You might know her actually,” he added, “she overlapped when you were in the corps. Went by the name of Corndog.”

I did remember her.

And then he kept on playing his guitar. To him, this was just passing news. Normal. Not even a blink of an eye.

I exhaled and noticed how completely different I felt being here. 

That afternoon, I got to see Hannah. 

While talking about the hike, she said in her glowing smile, “It's so great you're going on your own too, you know? It's gonna be such an incredible experience.” 

Her words oozed with genuine.

I almost started crying right there, as I could feel her support and so clearly sensed the stark contrast to my environment mere days before.

I hadn't hiked any miles yet. I was still raw in grief. Yet my body felt so different in the Flagstaff apartment than it did in my parents’ Wisconsin home.

We often think our inner states are “ours.”

Yet we are in conversation and relation with our environments (seen and unseen; known, unknown and unknowable) all day.

People and their emotions.
Amount of sunlight our eyes and skin receive.
Street and building signs.
Pollen in the breeze.
Microbes we ingest from plants from the soils.
Prayers of others.
Feet stepping on surfaces.
A car tailgating.
The scent of a rose.
Phone messages.
Birdsong.
Questions from relatives.
Skin breathing the air.
Laughing with a coworker.
Dew brushing our ankles.
A smile from the cashier.
The list could go on for pages, as we're part of very interconnected webs.

And so, I invite you into some explorations this week:

» In what environments does your body respond with ease, peace, and relaxed comfort?

» In what environments does your body respond with constriction, a migraine, a tight throat, fatigue, [enter one of your body's unpleasant sensations here]?

» What choice could give yourself 5 more minutes in a nourishing environment today?

» What choice could gently remove you from a constricting-environment for 5 minutes?

If it feels right or light/fun, go forth noticing how your particular body responds to various environments in this life-season. Noticing and naming preference is worth celebrating! It's all neutral information. (And it will keep changing as you change.)

Okay you beautiful humans, go well and rooted into your day.

Rooting for you,
Rebecca