Magic Walking
Mile 2,148 - Cascade Locks, Oregon
“I wonder if the snow wants to be black; if the soil thinks she’s too dark; if butterflies want to cover up their marks; if rocks are self-conscious of their weight; if mountains are insecure of their strength…” -Naimi
Mile 2,148 - Cascade Locks, Oregon
It is without thought, an impulse ingrained from years and years of practice. Here I am living without mirrors for days on end, only glancing at my reflection in swirling pools and emerald lakes. I don’t care so much as what stares back as how deep I can go below the surface, or how cool and refreshing the water will feel against my skin. With all this time without flat, glassed mirrors, it always comes as a shock when I notice my fingers sliding to the bottom of my shirt to check the state of my body in the first bathroom mirror I can find off trail. My body gives me so many gifts each day: strong, enduring legs to climb up and over beautiful, rugged peaks, ears that pick up the ethereal trills of a hermit thrush each morning, eyes that (with a little help) can witness all the changing colors and textures and light this world offers. All these sensations, all these gifts, and I concern myself with what I see in the mirror. I have hiked to the tallest point in the lower 48, have walked over 2,000 miles across this country with 30+ pounds on my back, and yet I still measure my strength and value by whether or not the mirror in town shows me the “right” amount of bone, thinness, or tone.
How does a mountain know her true shape, her presence, if she only ever sees herself through the flat reflection of the lake? If she only ever sees the small part of her that can be reflected back? My body is not a temple to worship within, it is not a machine to fuel. It is not a home to be maintained. My body is not an inanimate object to own or manage or control. My body is alive. Beating and breathing whether I am aware of it or not. My body is not a person, place, or thing. It is the experience of living, the state of being itself. Body originally meant “to be awake,” “to be aware.” My body is my awareness. My body is my awakeness, my aliveness. My body is my messenger and my muse. She tells me to put on another layer as the winds whip across my face. She urges me forward to pluck sweetness from the vine. To turn towards you, and say “you’ve got to try!” This skin, these bones, these muscles I have grown are how I know the depth of my own life. The mirror sees tightness around my core, but doesn’t see the pain in my stomach, hurt in bones from the days and miles without enough food that caused it. The mirror sees bags under my eyes, but doesn’t see me staying next to you while you cry. The mirror sees softness in my arms, but doesn’t see how wide I can stretch them and how much better they are for holding you.
How many meals prepared by my mom or moments of celebration for my friends will I continue to miss in hope the picture of me matches the reality I feel? How many of those meals, how many of those moments, do I have left? I’d rather hold them forever on my hips, for at least then I will know my life has been rich.
