Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [131]
The words Warren Doyle had spoken at the Appalachian Trail Institute haunted me. I was looking forward to going home, but I didn’t realize how hard it would be to reconcile the last four months with the rest of my life. The world was the same, but I was different. I had connected on a deep level to my existence in the woods, and civilization wouldn’t be able to satisfy the parts of me that I had discovered on the trail.
The full impact of my thru-hike didn’t set in all at once, but revealed itself through my thoughts and interactions over the next weeks, months, and years. Post-trail, I fearlessly set out to find a new home and career, and I quickly found a position at a museum in Virginia. I loved my job and my coworkers, but I didn’t love my window. I should have been thankful for the window—with an office in the basement of a two-hundred-year-old house, I was one of the only employees who could look outside. And while I was happy to have the view, I became covetous of what I saw. From behind the glass pane, I watched the seasons change gradually, I observed the rain and snow as an onlooker and not as a participant, and worst of all, I saw feet, lots of feet, walking by my desk. I couldn’t see past anyone’s kneecaps because the window was above me and the view was limited, but all day every day I saw the shoes of museum visitors walk by, while my feet spent most of the day hidden underneath my desk in uncomfortable dress shoes.
My home life was good. I loved the apartment I lived in with my friend Alice. I loved the cold fruit that came from the refrigerator, the hot water that came from the spigots, and the warm and cool air that came from the vents. For the first few weeks after the trail, I was thankful for every meal, every clean piece of clothing, and every hot shower. But then my gratitude began to fade, and one winter night, standing under the forceful, steaming water shooting out of the showerhead, I realized how commonplace it had become. I remembered my joy at the jailhouse in Palmerton where I’d turned on every showerhead and run through the hot water like a child through a sprinkler, smiling and laughing out loud. My appreciation was now being washed away daily, and I no longer felt thankful for modern conveniences. Instead, I once again felt entitled to them.
It was easy for me to meet people in a new city, but most of my relationships stopped after the introduction. There were people around me all the time, but I didn’t feel like any of us really knew one another. Without seeking depth, I once again began to categorize people: church friend, work friend, good-looking friend, successful friend. And I once again felt alone.
I missed being by myself with my thoughts, and thinking things through to completion. I missed being able to sing out loud. I missed being serenaded to sleep by Mooch. And I much preferred my mountaintop and lakeside dates with Nightwalker to our frequent phone calls and e-mails.
A year after starting my hike at Springer Mountain, I felt like everything around me should have made me happy, but it didn’t. I had reverted back to a “normal” life, a life where I met everyone else’s expectations and not my own, a life that made me feel numb and empty.
I began to long for discomfort, for any pain or struggle that made me feel alive. I wanted to feel wet, tired, sore, hungry, and thirsty. I didn’t necessarily want to be cold, but I wanted to appreciate being warm. I missed always spending the night somewhere different, and I started to resent my stationary bed. When I fell asleep at night, I would dream of adventure, and when I woke up in the morning, I would thirst for real fellowship. I would get up, take a shower, put on clean clothes and makeup, but looking in the mirror, I never felt as beautiful as I did when I was a sunburned, bug-bitten hiker in Maine.
I wanted to go back into the woods.
I wanted to be