One year ago, I rolled into Vermont. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. The world had opened up to me in a new and exciting way. A new state, new trails, new coffee shops, new breweries, new job, new people…all of mine for the exploring. And not just one state! Access to New Hampshire and Maine and New York trails…wild caught fish from the coast, wood fired ovens for baking pies, blueberries to be picked, Canada to explore…

For ten weeks, it was all of that. Trails, breweries, coffee shops, kiddos, people…Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine…dreams of skiing and ice fishing…making plans for “letter of the week” with preschoolers and starting nature journals. Dreaming with friends about summer adventures to Acadia.

And then everything changed. You know what I’m talking about.

This was not the year that I planned. This was not the year that any of us planned. [But you know all of this part…The moms who imagined a kid’s first day of kindergarten. The college seniors who planned the perfect graduation party. The high school seniors who had been dreaming of prom for ages. People who had jobs suddenly didn’t have them. Neighbors who were friendly suddenly couldn’t be on the sidewalk together.

There were signs about social distancing in grocery stores and libraries and on trails. Masks and hand sanitizer in my car and my pockets. Dry, cracked skin from washing my hands too much in the heat and humidity of summer. Couldn’t go out to make friends, so settled for the cats that lived in the house with me and avoided contact with a crazy roommate as much as possible.

My relatively comfortable (if “new”) boat was rocked, like everyone else. But I am quick to realize just how minor my rocking was…and just how comfortable my bubble has been (I’ve struggled to be okay with that comfort…Nashville – I love you and want to hug every last one of you). I remained employed. I stayed connected with vital members of my community (in Tennessee and North Carolina and Pennsylvania). I had access to trails that were new and exciting. I was able to leave the crazy roommate and settle into my own space with my own cat.

We all thought it would be over by the beginning of summer…well, by the end of summer…by fall…by the holidays? It’s still not “over,” but I’m closing the chapter on this first year. And, in my typical fashion, I reflect on a closing chapter by the trails I took.]

A year ago, I thought I would have hiked two dozen different 4000 footers by this time. Instead, I hiked five of them over and over and over and over again – winter, spring, summer and fall. Camel’s Hump, Abraham, Ellen, Mansfield, Killington. With each ascent, I noticed something different about the trail and about the summit. There was a new plant to appreciate or a new rock revealed. Light reflected through the trees differently than it reflected off of snow and ice. There were bunny tracks left in the snow instead of chipmunk scampering through the trees. The birds’ wings rustled differently through fresh green leaves than through the crisp leaves of fall.

But it wasn’t just a change in nature that caught my eye. I was changing. With each trip up to a familiar summit, I found myself anticipating something. The rise and fall of the trail, branches forming an archway at a certain point in the trail, a hollowed out trail perfect for goofy pictures, the perfect sitting rock at a summit…I developed a level of familiarity with these trails that I haven’t had before. I’ve always been focused on moving on to something new. That’s why I hit all 56 state parks in Tennessee in a year…I didn’t want to do the same thing over and over. But this year has taught me the value in repetition, in taking the time to know something well.

Please don’t misunderstand – I will not be settling down to hike only the trails in Vermont for the rest of my life. No, no.

But, I will have more willingness to be content in stillness…enjoying the space and the community around me, celebrating, mourning, immersing. Stepping away from the chaos of the world to a favorite spot in the woods. Finding comfort in familiarity. And savoring quiet moments outside with my cat (even though he refuses to enjoy the snow).