The Space Between the Signposts
Years ago I worked as a wilderness guide in the San Juan Mountains. On Saturday nights all the guides, sunburned and sore, recovered from a week on the trail by sharing a hearty family-style meal. The after-dinner movie on the big projector was a heavenly treat we all looked forward to, but only got to enjoy if your gear was packed for yet another group to arrive early the next morning.
On one particular Saturday night, I forgoed the movie after being assigned a particularly challenging trail to guide that week. I spent the evening with my guide partner, Tanner, and other guides who had hiked the Goose Lake route and had “beta” to share about its challenges. Tanner and I traced our fingers along dirty topographical maps and scribbled down detailed notes as the advice poured in.
“You’re going to feel like you’re lost,” someone advised us. “You will be lost,” another guide joked. “There’s literally no trail the entire time.” Tanner and I exchanged a look of worry.
A couple days later, after hours of hiking through thick forests, I saw the very same look in the eyes of the kids in our group - only this time it was worry mixed with a bit of annoyance.
“Hang on. Let’s pause here.” I said, nodding to Tanner that it was time for a guide meeting. The kids released their packs to the ground and I passed a bag of trail mix around the circle to keep the peace.
“Are we lost?” one girl whined.
“Just drink some water!” we called back to them as we scouted deeper into the woods. Out of earshot from the kids, we admitted to each other that we both had no idea where we were, not even close, not even for a minute.
“You doing okay?” Tanner asked me, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I realized then that I was more than okay - I was actually reveling in the intensity of the day. As precarious as it was to be lost in the backwoods with 14 hungry teenagers, it also made me rush with life.
We made a plan to each do some reconnaissance work - Tanner trekking west and me north until we found some kind of signpost to orient us. As I scouted alone in the woods, I felt both aware of the weight of my responsibility for getting us out of this mess and the bold confidence that somehow a way would open.
When we eventually spotted the faint path leading to Goose Lake, the sweat was cooling on our backs as the sun dipped over the crest. Spirits were low and the trail mix bag had run empty hours ago. As Goose Lake appeared like a mirage on the horizon, pure and purple and majestic, the kids erupted in joy and ran to splash at its shore. But I hung back and looked down at the harsh and impossibly rugged valley we had just passed through, bowing to it with reverence for carrying us through.
Not Goose Lake, but just as stunning. Photo by vishal amin
I believe we are always being guided forward - that even when we’re feeling lost there is a sacred “threadedness” to the space between the signposts.
Many people with chronic illness and chronic pain know well the experience writer and coach Noelle Janka calls “the chase.” It’s when your current protocol isn’t working and it’s time to go back to the drawing board to find a new plan. It can provoke a lot of lostness.
I’m in the chase right now - totally mystified by the ghostly qualities of the pain I’m experiencing (yesterday here, today there) and without a plan for how to get it to go away. I am in the space between signposts, and let me tell you - it does not feel thrilling or life giving at all. It feels depressing and scary.
And yet. When I look back at the arc of healing in my life, I see as clear as day that so many old chronic symptoms are now long gone. And that most of the things I have overcome were always laced with threads of perfectly-timed guidance - that Internet post perfectly describing my pain patterns, a friend’s encouragement who healed from the same issue, a hunch, a guess, or a risk to try a new doctor. Like perfectly placed clues, these things all led me to cross more and more symptoms off my list over the years.
Yesterday, Nate and I drove out to a state park to go hiking in celebration of his 35th birthday. I couldn’t make it more than five minutes past the trailhead before I had to surrender to just how uncomfortable I felt. Nate hiked the rest alone, and I sat by the side of a trickling creek. Here I am again, I thought. Lost in the woods in an entirely new way.
Being lost and found, of course, mean entirely new things to me than they did ten years ago when I was a guide. Then, I lived in a blissful state of found-ness: healthy and largely unscarred by life, a day’s dip into disorientation was a welcome challenge. Of course a way out of the woods would open, because life was friendly, wide and open.
Lostness as I know it today - scary states of not knowing what will heal- feels like a far more rigorous emotional territory to navigate.
Thankfully, I have learned to carry some pretty powerful tools for when I get lost.
The best compass I know for staying on course is to practice being soft with myself instead of hard on myself. Less “Ugh, why can’t I figure this out?” and more “Hey, you didn’t have the stamina for that six months ago!”
The best smoke signals I can send up are prayers for guidance: God, please keep showing me the way forward, please see me, help me.
The best mental map I can use is the vision of me dancing on top of an epic mountain top with Nate.
The best whistle I can wear is the freedom to call out for help and support at any time.
The best trail I know to follow is my razor-sharp intuition which always knows the next right thing I need to do for myself.
The best guide I could ever have is myself.
Being a wilderness guide taught me so much about how to survive in the backcountry. But once I mastered the “hard” skills of moutaineering, leading kids and adults through the wildnerness felt so effortless and easy because I knew my stuff and I trusted myself. Yes, we all “survived” out there, but it always felt more like practicing trust all day long.
I think it’s the same way with navigating illness. When we discover our personal medicines and trust our innner and outer guides, the healing experience stops feeling like we’re just trying to survive our lives. We can ease up a bit. We can know how to be lost and found at the same time.
