The other morning I woke overwhelmed by grief.
I knew I was in a beautiful place. I knew intellectually that everything I need to be happy is right here. I tried to rally, to lift my spirit through force of will. But "sucking it up" does not work very well for me. So I headed into the woods to have a good cry amidst trees that have been standing still for hundreds of years.
I walked down the trail that leads from Sam McDonald Park to Heritage Grove. I did not get very far. At the spot where the trail winds along a canyon of redwoods, the tears came. I let myself feel the part of me that is pissed at God for leading me down a path that involves so much loss. I sat down in the middle of the trail, stubbornly refusing to go on.
That's where I was - sitting, crying, when I heard a voice.
It caught me off guard. I almost never run into anyone in the woods. And this was early morning. I quickly got to my feet and made an attempt to brush away my tears.
The man was there before I could run. Just one man - which struck me as odd - since I had definitely heard a voice talking out loud. I turned to face him.
"Good morning," I said, resuming my seat in the middle of the path.
"Good morning!" he said, cheerfully, and sat down next to me, as if that were a normal thing to do.
"You're out early," I noticed.
"Yup," he said. "It's my day off. I like to get an early start."
"Where did you come from?"
"Heritage Grove," he replied.
"I've never been that far. I've seen some of the trees along the way. They are lovely."
"Yes," he agreed.
We continued the hikers' banter - talking about how much we love the beauty of California, talking about other parks in the area. Noticing his US Army cap, I asked him if he'd served.
"Yes," he said.
"Where?"
"Bosnia."
I was surprised. I had expected to hear Iraq.
"I've been to Bosnia," I said.
"What were you doing there?" he wanted to know.
"Listening to people's stories. I went with a church group shortly after the war ended."
We compared notes about Bosnia. He told me NATO did a good thing there. I told him about the Franciscan monks who crossed front lines to deliver food to people. We shared our mutual horror at witnessing what neighbors are capable of doing to each other. I told him about the soldier who showed us sniper bunkers overlooking Sarajevo and who confessed his post traumatic stress syndrome. He told me about how hard it was for him to reenter normal life after serving in the armed forces.
Then we turned our attention back to the trees. The beauty of the redwoods. The madrones near the hiker's hut. The oaks in the flats.
Eventually, we parted.
When I walked out of the woods, my grief was gone and my sense of wonder had returned.
Who was the man in the woods who helped me remember who I am?
