Ammi Midstokke: Friends who make you feel better
No matter where one navigates on the political or philosophical spectrum, it is hard not to be discouraged by the state of affairs in our nation right now. I suppose the nihilists are doing all right, which in itself might be an argument in their favor, though I’m not sure what the statistics are on their mental wellness.
What I do know is that mine suffers every time I open a newspaper. I thought it was just post-adventure blues (PAB being a regular occurrence after various escapades or outdoor events), for which I’ve never found a cure other than to immediately book a flight to some other faraway place or get lost in the mountains. Nature cures many things, but what I need is a restoration of my faith in humanity.
That’s when it is best to hang out with a really good human. And if you can do it in nature, even better.
So I reached out to my friend June this week and scheduled a little wandering in the woods. When I picked her up, she was wearing a bright, tie-dyed T-shirt, hiking boots, and socks that did not match. And shorts, because as much as her outfit said “I couldn’t care less, these colors are great,” she’s usually pretty good at being socially acceptable.
She brought her dog along, and every time her dog was out of view or just a little too far away, she’d whisper in a tiny voice, “Oh Pearl, where are you,” until the dog magically appeared again.
I could have used a conversation about how the world is on fire and people are killing each other and I feel absolutely impotent in the face of it all. I could have deep-dove into a trove of better recycling tactics and power conservation and environmental efforts. But June just occasionally asked if we were getting close to the pond. She was pretty familiar with the trails there and I’d never seen a pond this time of year, but judging by the number of mosquitoes fueling up on my arms, there was water nearby.
June refused to engage in any of my thinking beyond observations about flowers or asking me to put this or that sample of greenery in the little stash we were collecting. If there was a long silence, she would blurt out, “We’re in the woods now!” as if I needed a blatant reminder to be present in the moment. I tried to heed her advice.
The midsummer forest is thick and rich with the wet spring we had. The undergrowth smells of moist cedars and just the smallest hints of wildflower nectar. Fat bumblebees came floating by to rest on some with their furry behinds waddling back and forth. The drying creek beds wafted a scent of evolution in process, something slick and fishy. The deer stood with their tails raised, stock still as they watched to see if our dogs would notice them.
Sometimes June would break into a playful run, either going uphill or downhill, calling the dogs back to pet them, plucking “puffers” to blow. The only thing she seemed to care about was the location of that pond and whatever was directly in front of her. Any pond that still has water out here in July would be a swamp, which is exactly what our dogs would smell and look like afterwards, so I can’t say I was very helpful in the search. She was undaunted in her joy, though, exclaiming, “We made it!” at the top of every hill, no matter how small.
Maybe I need to shrink my viewpoint a little, narrow my scope. Maybe I need to bring into focus the things that are right here in front of me, those I can impact, those I am blessed with, to be reminded that while these other things are important, they are not everything. We’re all going to need a lot of reminding, a lot of flower smelling, a lot of being in the woods for a while.
By the end of our stroll, I was starting to feel a bit refreshed and most grateful for the wisdom June had indirectly offered. It’s not often we turn to 2-year-olds for life advice, but they are surprisingly sage in their simplicity and attention. She also showed me how to pump my arms when running, which is truly a whole-body exercise for anyone under 3-feet tall. I was encouraged to see our running form is not dissimilar.
After our walk, we made chalk art on her driveway and June declared it beautiful while I decided children are perhaps the most hopeful thing of all. And though I’ll surely need meditation and mountains to survive the months to come, I will also be borrowing the toddlers of my neighborhood more often so they may dispense the insight of their innocence and I may embrace their wonder.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com