On nectarines, a warm shower and 272 miles
Grief and hope.
There is a feeling that you get sometimes, when you become suddenly, deeply aware that the debris is settling. I have no other way to explain it other than that its similar to when you study the pattern of the tides. If you watch the waves crash into the sand and you witness the fury and strength of the ocean pounding the shore, you will see it pulling and tearing up the sand, engulfing it; the beautiful, clear water becoming brown, dirty, muddy, gritty. That pounding is grief. Your heart is the sand, and it tears and it pounds and it pulls at you and and it is loud and unrelenting and unforgiving.
Nathaniel Hawthorne has an incredible line from his poem, "The Ocean", which speaks volumes to me:
"The ocean has its silent caves; deep, quiet and alone. Though there may be fury on the waves, beneath them, there is none".
As you slowly come back home to yourself, to the quiet and the stillness of the sand on the seabed, you feel more and more whole within. And 4 years ago, 3 weeks into my 272 mile walk, alone, at 24, in the mountains in Slovenia, with simply my tent, my thoughts, my backpack, my hiking boots and my grief, I experienced the beginning of that beauty of wholeness.
This memory has been ignited recently through the changing of the seasons and the warmth of these late May evenings. I picked up a nectarine on a stand on the corner of a street in my neighbourhood in east Amsterdam yesterday and I remembered. I find shopping for fruit an incredibly sensory experience; pressing my fingers lightly into the plump, taut skin, completely zoned in on the fruit in all of it's magnificent beauty; watching the skin give way a little under my fingers, ochre yellow freckles signalling it's ripeness.
During the walk I alternated between wild camping and pitching my tent on campsites. Both experiences had their purposes, but the practicalities of campsites felt luxurious. I found such delight in the sheer simplicity of warm, running tap water after a few days sleeping alone amongst trees and haphazardly washing my face and my armpits in the streams. The cold soapy water would dribble down my ribcage and clumsily soak my vest as I would squat by the stream fully clothed. At 6:00am in the morning, with my backpack already packed with everything precisely in it's right place, specifically my spare vest at the bottom, I would curse myself and wonder why I made this mistake every morning.
I remember the feeling as I walked into a small campsite along the Soca river. I had spent the previous 2 nights wild camping. My mind was buzzing with the possibility of a warm shower and something different to eat other than the oats and polenta that I would feast on morning and evening, oftentimes supplemented with wood sorrel and a dusty bag of almonds that I had bought with me. It had been 3 days since I had eaten anything different. I hadn't passed any towns or villages to even be able to experience anything different.
Sensory experiences always serve to be the most memorable, and I feel the same excitement that I did 4 years ago as I recall this now. It was about 5pm. I had walked 23 km that day; I had pitched my tent in the campsite and had greeted my neighbours. I showered twice; the first time fully clothed to wash my dusty vest and hiking shorts and the second time purely for the hedonistic pleasure. My blonde hair was drying and glistening in the sun and the hairs on my skin were standing up from the experience of the warm water shortly followed by the slight chill of an early summer evening breeze. I walked away from my tent, out of the gates and 2km down the road. As I entered the village I was greeted by a burst of colour; a beguiling stand of fruit precisely like the one on the corner of my street here in Amsterdam.
There was 1 specific nectarine that stood out in this stand. I remember so vividly the sheer pleasure of that moment; I remember the feeling of my tastebuds waking up so fast that I was salivating and experiencing an almost painful shooting feeling in my jawline underneath my ears. And so I picked it up, took it to the counter, paid and quietly spoke my 'hvala' (thank you), sat down on the pavement outside of the shop and took a bite.
It was perfectly ripe; it's juices running through my fingers down my wrist, my tastebuds screaming with pleasure after eating nothing but grains for the past few days; my whole body feeling weary and alive and exploding with joy. And okay. I felt so incredibly okay. I was doing well. I was doing good. I felt satisfied and whole. I needed nothing else. This was enough.
When I remind myself how easy it is to reach the experience of gratitude I will give thanks to my brave soul 4 years ago, happy on her own, on a 3 week long 272 mile walk through Slovenia. Today, I will remember Anna 4 years ago and how she felt. Pure ecstasy simply from warm running water, freshly washed hair and a nectarine. And I will give gratitude for the ability to recognise pleasures in the exquisiteness of simplicity. And I will give gratitude for myself, for the bravery of choosing to stand in the way of beauty.
Anna Willis