Solitary

These are some of my favorite memories:

An evening spent paddling a canoe on a solitary mountain lake, the water clear and motionless beneath me, the setting sun making the trees seem dark and casting shadows on the mountain peaks, the only sound that of the water as I draw my paddle past it.

Mornings spent riding my bike along the dirt road next to the Elk Refuge, the sun peeking over the mountains and warming my wind-cooled skin.

Evening hikes to Leigh Lake, the dirt hard beneath my bare feet, the conversation with the people I’m with relaxed and comfortable, the water invitingly cold.

Riding in the back of a truck on a dirt road, my best friend next to me, lakes and pine trees passing by in the valley beneath us, cool wind blowing through my hair, thinking, “What more is there to life?”

None of these memories are recent. All of them belong to a world that is no longer mine. And yet I have no memories of which I am fonder.

What happened in the year between then and now? Yes, I went from small town in the middle of nowhere (by which I mean the middle of everything worthwhile) to a university town crowded with people and buildings, but I was always taught that our happiness is not dependent on our environment.

But somehow, my emotions, at least in part, seem to be inextricably connected to my surroundings. Wide open spaces and endless areas to explore make me feel alive and free. Being able to get away from people and buildings and everything that stresses me out makes me feel whole. Unpolluted air and long bike rides next to clear-running streams with mountains in the background make me feel alive.

Lots of buildings and lots of people make me feel cooped up. I can’t get away; I have no room to be myself. I am contained, with no room for my soul to soar. It is harder for me to find that peace, that wholeness, when there is no place for me to be alone in nature.

One day last summer I rode my bike along the Provo River Parkway Trail. Thirty minutes into my ride, I saw a dirt trail heading off the main path. I pulled up along it and followed it down to the river. I sat down and realized I had found my solitary place. I stayed there for a while, doing nothing in particular, content to merely be. I rode home feeling more relaxed than I had in a long time.

This is what solitary places surrounded by nothing but nature do to me: help me relax, help me reconnect with myself and what I want from life. Without them I get cranky. I get insecure. I worry that I’m not doing enough, that I’m not good enough, that I don’t measure up to what everyone else expects of me. With them I realize that it doesn’t matter what everyone else wants of me. What matters is if I’m getting what I want from life. These places help me put my life and my priorities in perspective.

A couple of weeks ago, while riding my bike as I am wont to do, I came across a park filled with trees and – miraculously enough – free of people. I dropped my bike beside a tree, made sure I was as out of sight of the relatively unused road as possible, pulled out my journal and began to write.

Suddenly I felt alive.