Entering the Mystery

60: (August 2020)

Much as I love nature, I’ve never been particularly big on camping. I camped a few times at local campgrounds when the girls were quite young, but that was the limit of my camping experience—until now. I recently camped overnight with my husband at a fairly remote location, albeit less than 25 miles from our home. It was his idea.

To get to the campsite, we had to kayak across a lake, portage across a small strip of land inclusive of a flight of stairs, and then across a smaller, pristine lake to find one of the four campsites tucked along the edge of the forest. To be honest, before we left I had some anxiety about my ability to make it to there. I’m not athletic in any sense of the word, and I was concerned that I wouldn’t have the upper body strength to paddle for at least an hour or more, especially with a bunch of camping gear loaded into and onto my kayak. I was also worried that I would tip over and be soaking wet for the rest of the trip, as well as suffer the potential loss of some of the provisions I was transporting.

But none of those things happened, and after miraculously spotting “#4” marked on a six-inch square, worn-out piece of wood nailed to an indistinct tree, we paddled up to a lovely clearing with a soft pine carpet. We quickly set up our tiny tent and unloaded the kayaks. Since campfires are not permitted, we unpacked our ready-made lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then I crawled into the tent for a well-deserved nap.

Given that our ability to transport things was limited to the small hatches in the kayaks, I had decided not to take up valuable space with reading material. Instead, after the nap, my husband and I sat along the water’s edge and listened to a symphony of birdsong and watched a couple of loons splashing in the water, occasionally making their haunting, captivating sounds. My husband swam, but it takes an act of God for me to willingly submerge my body in water that is less than 90 degrees, so I just watched and chatted with him.

It was me, my husband, and pure nature—there wasn’t even cell phone coverage there. I felt a curious mix of being both more vulnerable yet more powerful, because I knew I had to depend on my body more than usual on this trip. Time slowed down dramatically, as did my inner rhythm. The script in my head that usually reminds me of all the things on my to-do list faded, and a sense of deep relaxation took its place.

Alas, there was this one sticking point to the experience: the latrine. I failed to understand ahead of time that the latrine was open air, as in, there were no walls. I was expecting an outhouse, but it was simply a wooden box with a toilet seat attached to it, set in the middle of the woods—and it was a fairly good hike from the campsite to get to it. After 62 years of life and a good number of years living in New York City, Long Island, and downtown Boston, I believe this was my first open-air toileting experience. It did not please me. It was just a tad beyond the furthest reaches of my comfort zone. The “trail” to the latrine was marked with extremely random, small bits of blue tape stuck to a twig here and there. I was sure I’d get lost in the night. So I basically allowed my body to gradually go into a state of dehydration by only drinking a tiny bit of water during the day; not the best strategy in the world, but at least I avoided the nighttime trek through the woods.

That aside, nature’s gifts were abundant. Besides a bright sliver of moon over the water and a star-studded sky, the nighttime offered the enchanting call of the loons, which was different, more complex than what we’d heard in the day. And the loon calls were occasionally laced with the hoots of owls from the other side of the lake, the two sounds intermingling over the water to create a beautiful, surreal soundscape. 

The final gift that nature gave us, after portaging our kayaks from one lake to the other upon our return, was seeing a bald eagle and its fledgling perched on a fallen tree limb at the water’s edge. I had never seen an eagle other than in photos. We stopped paddling and watched the majestic bird and its offspring, and then the eagle spread its giant wings and glided across the water.

Considering the whole camping trip was only 24 hours, I had experienced a good handful of “firsts.” My husband is eagerly looking forward to the night we reserved for next month. He pushes me to stretch myself in ways I probably wouldn’t do if left to my own devices, and I’m glad he does. Although I found myself giddy upon returning to our toilet and shower at home, the sounds of the night, the sight of the eagle’s snowy white head, and the whoosh of its wings as it sailed across the water were well worth the stretch.

40: (August 2000)

I was walking on a rocky beach with my 7-year-old daughter. “How come there are so many books about mysteries?” she asked, having become an avid reader of a number of children’s mystery-book series the year prior. “And why hasn’t a mystery happened to me yet?” she added. I was amused by the latter question. Her reading had exposed her to whole worlds, where intrigue ruled the day. Her own life seemed bland in comparison: no noticeable mysteries yet and already seven years old!

I looked across the endless sea of rocks before us. Small, polished stones washed by the ocean for countless years, each beautiful rock distinct and perfect. Creation—could there be any greater mystery?

We stopped at a small tide pool. My daughter picked up a snail shell, about the size of a pea, and watched with delight as a little body wiggled out. We looked more closely at the pool and within a few minutes realized that it was filled with life. What had first appeared to be a deposit of shells were actually live hermit crabs, slowly moving about with their houses on their backs. Tiny fish, no bigger than a child’s pinky fingernail and barely visible to the eye, swam in schools among them.

Sandpipers called out as they searched along the water’s edge for food, and seagulls flew overhead in the steel gray sky. The enigmatic water rippled softly as it caressed the rocky shore—the boundless water, capable of beating fragments of jagged glass into smooth sea jewels and polishing stones into satin spheres.

Timeless, infinite beauty. My daughter and I were enveloped by it, even as we were part of it. We are always part of it, the whole world in all its growing, living, and dying. We are part of the endless cycle.

Maybe when my daughter is older she will see that her entire life is saturated with mystery; a mystery “happened” to her from the moment she joined life’s dance. Perhaps that is why so many people love mystery stories. They resonate in a primal way and give people the satisfaction of knowing with certainty “who dun it,” for in real life, that part of the mystery will be pondered throughout time.

60-40:

Perhaps the original stage was set for mystery when the earth was created, in all its glory. We are so fortunate that we get to interact with it—to skim on the surface of its delights or plumb its depths to enter into a deeper relationship with its wonders.

May we collectively never lose our sense of awe at its gifts, and may that propel us to take greater care of this mysterious, wondrous creation. We play an intimate role in how its story unfolds, after all. May we become deserving participants and learn to be worthy stewards.