I began packing for my first backpacking trip at age of 13. I was a freshman in high school, and this trip was offered as part of my school’s outings program. “Spring break on a beach in California…I should bring my swimsuit and sarong” I thought to myself as I threw in what later proved to be useless items. I had zero conception of what “backpacking” meant and didn’t understand how COLD the coast of Northern California would still be in March. However, this trip proved to be exactly what I needed at this point in my life. My mom had just been diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time, my parents had just adopted my younger brother, and I had just decided to leave my snooty private high school and join my friends the following year at the more down-to-earth public high school. All in all, I was in a state of isolation.
I, five other students, and two adult leaders arrived at the Lost Coast during night time and decided to sleep right on the sand. I looked up at the immense sky and immediately saw two shooting stars streak across the entire universe. This was a sign for a beautiful trip to come.
The next day we set out on a 10 mile hike on the beach. I can walk 10 miles easily. 10 miles with 30 pounds on my back while walking in the sand proved to be another matter. The pb&j sandwich that I ate after that exhausting hike was the most delicious meal that I had eaten that year…I can still remember the taste as I write this now.
We now had three day ahead of us to enjoy our camping spot and explore our surroundings. What did we do for three whole days in the middle of the Lost Coast with no one else around? We built a tree house of course! We found driftwood and washed up rope on the shore and actually built a platform high up in a tree that became our fortress for the next few days. We also built a swing, pictured below.
We went tide-pooling, practiced yoga, and surfed.
But what I remember most were the nights. We would build a large campfire and all huddle around enjoying our rice curry or calzones that we had made that night. Under the stars, with no other humans around, we allowed our barriers to come down. Every night we shared about our lives, and every night the sharing went deeper. I was able to open up about the issues that I was dealing with and by hearing my peers stories I realized that I was not alone. I also realized how scared we are about being vulnerable but also how much we crave and need human connection and this vulnerability.
I went to a privileged high school where you did not interact if you were in a different grade or social-class. Yet here us six were, ranging from freshman to senior, from completely different social groups, all connecting on the deepest level. Because out in nature, away from all of the social constructs that we had created, we were able to see beyond our differences and connect through our commonality of simply being.
Our last night together, one of the leaders shared a poem that has stuck with me for the past 8 years. It is called “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer:
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
I left the Lost Coast with a new found connection to myself, others, and nature. I found that I "truly like the company" that I "keep in the empty moments". I decided to give my high school another chance, and for the following three years I made the best friends of my life and went on over 30 more backpacking trips in order to "source (my) own life from its presence".
