Hope for the Hopeless

I have always struggled to balance my social anxiety with the guilt that comes after spending too many weeks in a row locked up away from people, watching Six Feet Under. I am, to put it nicely, an introvert. Truth be told, I dislike people. I have a few friends, and a husband, who are always able to slip in under the radar and spend time with me, but they don’t count. I don’t want to make small talk with my neighbors. I dread parties, avoid social gatherings, and try not to get to know my coworkers too well. I want to live near my closest friends because they are better than any I could meet anywhere else, and let’s face it, I don’t want to go through the inconvenience of weeding out ten boring people to find one potential friend to go to a movie with. I’m picky.

But, because we thought that we would be back in central Illinois by now, I am taking acute notice of what living in Oregon has to offer. Last week, we went to the Redwood National Forest, and the northern California coast. I was enthralled by each fern frond and the salty fragrance of the ocean. I walked among the ancient trees and imagined dinosaurs hiding behind the mammoth trunks.

I stood in a circle of trees, looked above, and was able to hear the whispers of everyone I have trouble hearing on the side of the living. I remembered why we came here in the first place, our own Oregon trail.

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We were joined by one of the friends from our old home; it was like I had seen him every weekend since we moved, although it had been over a year. I dared him to crawl in what seemed to be a burrow underneath a great tree stump. He obliged, and realized it lead to the inside of the dead tree. Inside, it was a hollow, private shelter. 

Each of us taking our turns crawling in drew the attention of passers by. A twenty-something with an indiscernible accent, a retired couple who said they were great grandparents, among others. I joked with them, asked them questions, took their pictures for them. I enjoyed it. Strange realization.

 

We walked a bit further, finding a bench so that Ava could nurse al fresco. Carved on it’s back was this: “One touch of nature makes the whole World kin.” --Shakespeare