the goat path

If I am lucky, about once a year I get the opportunity to visit one of my favorite places in the world. I fell in love with it - and my husband - when we first started dating in the late 1980’s. I didn’t know at the time that a simple goat path on the side of a hill would have such an impact on me, or that I would return to it annually, taking in its surroundings and allowing my mind to meander off course for just a little while, the closest I get to practicing meditation.

This past week, I got that chance, albeit with plenty of administered COVID tests, a pocketful of masks and handfuls of sanitizer. Maybe because of that, I appreciated this little piece of earth that much more. Maybe because of the year, the unrest, the turbulence, and my unsettled feelings, I needed this pilgrimage.

I have never been great with intricate details; I am more of a big picture kind of person (broad strokes and large concepts are my comfort zone). I think that is why math has always been difficult; an extra zero or two can easily go unnoticed. Grammar is not my strength. I was not destined to be a lawyer. Thankfully, I am surrounded by some who find joy in the fine print. They are quick to catch the errors that I might otherwise overlook.

And it’s that big picture that always grabs me when I set foot on that dusty goat path. If I look too closely, it’s hard to ignore the poop. Goats live on the hill, and the trail is nothing more than a thin crossing that has been created over time by the animals, so it makes sense that there is poop, a lot of poop. But as I hike, one foot in front of the other, I look out, not down.

And out is outstanding. The path is set on a ridge, and below, the ocean rages, crashing into the rock and land, rhythmically, rocking me into the calm. It’s easy to get lost in the water and sun and lush green hills off in the distance.

I fall into step behind Brady. It’s amazing to me that even in paradise, spending a week with a teenage daughter can be full of beauty and love as well as tension, and can quickly confirm - I am so not cool. Any thought or hope for the contrary is nullified. I wear my favorite bathing suit too much and the others I packed not enough. I walk too fast, too slow. I go to bed too early. I don’t spend enough time in the ocean; I spend too much time in the ocean. I remember putting my mother through a similar routine, so it makes me smile; I am more than willing to be the boulder from which she pushes off or the rock she uses to stretch her growing limbs. But it makes me sad to recall the amount of angst I felt as a teenager before I was okay with not being cool.

We walk on. Sometimes I sing to myself. I do that on a ski slope too; not loud, just a hum, but the same tune over and over again, and I wonder how it got in my head. It seems so random. But these moments merit an expression of appreciation, no matter how private, for being alive, for being there, for the joy that I am feeling right now, and it’s hard to stay silent. If my daughter only knew.

And I offer up prayers and wishes. Coming from this beautiful place, they seem louder, as if the beauty can propel my appeals to the front of the line. Or maybe it’s just that I feel a few steps closer to heaven here. I am grateful, and my concerns seem more manageable. I worry about our children - big worries, like will the world be safe and supportive, will they find meaningful work and meaningful relationships? And smaller ones too, like will they make that dentist appointment? Out on the trail, I am convinced that I am not alone in handling these fears.

This year, it’s just four of us; two of our boys stayed home. They are not really boys anymore, but to call them men feels too conclusive. They are in the middle, somewhere between outgrowing diapers and raising their own children in diapers. And it makes me think of how dynamic life is in comparison to the goat trail. For so many years I have walked along this path, and while it’s the same, I have changed. I first came single, to watch the sun rise or after a run (now the hike is my run). I came early in my marriage, and then with young children, clutching their little hands to keep them from chasing the goats or from toppling over the edge, and today with these children bigger, older and able to navigate on their own.

Here time stands still, but elsewhere it moves on.

And then just like that, we are back in Connecticut, and the moment has passed. The goat trail is an image in my mind, on my camera roll; something that I will yearn for until I return again. We all need a good pilgrimage. It doesn’t need to be far or exotic, religious or too time consuming, just the chance to feel restored, refreshed. My path indented on a hillside allows me to step out of the daily busyness and walk through the concerns that are on my mind with a new perspective, one that ignores the minutiae (the poop) and takes in the entire view. And even when I return home, and the world is raging like the thrashing ocean, I hold onto the calm for just a little bit longer, and I settle my uncool self back into life.