Letting Go

Well, the end has arrived. The end of these spectacular 10 months–the best, most adventurous, most life-changing year of my life. It’s 35o and raining in Christchurch as I type this, and it’s time to go home. Before I go home, however, it’s time to do some summing up. 

To New Zealand: This life has suited me, and it is hard to say goodbye to it. To long days on trail, long drives in a packed car, late night sleepy goodbyes as we dumped our stuff onto the gravel in front of our dorm. Co-dependence with a group of kind, goodhearted friends, endless laughs and well-matched thirst for adventure among the mountains and coastlines of this endlessly spectacular country. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot about who I was a year ago. Just a year ago this week, I had just moved to the island, and I was rapidly decompressing from my most challenging semester of college. The thought of leaving Maine was gut-wrenching, and I felt ill-prepared to take on the challenge of an entire year away. In fact, on June 11 I sent an email to SIT saying that I had some concerns about the Tanzania program and asking if I could transfer. I had some thought of staying on the island for the Fall, studying remotely and just scrapping the whole year abroad thing. 

It goes without saying that I am extraordinarily, life-affirmingly grateful I did not make that decision. I wish more than anything that I could go back to that Riley–stressed, scared, nervous, excited–give her a hug, and tell her that absolutely everything would turn out better than she ever could have imagined. This thought came to me on a walk with dear Frances the other day, watching the sunset over our favorite beach and the stretch of coastline in front of Christchurch. A year ago, it was all unknowns. Even six months ago, it was all unknowns when I stepped off the plane in Auckland. It all went so much better than I could have dreamed. I am so, so lucky. I hope I keep that feeling, that faith in the future of what could be, with me for the rest of my life, and the knowledge that you don’t always get to know how it’s going to turn out, but most of the time it’s going to be pretty darn sweet.

I feel older going home than when I left. This year, it started to feel like my actions are more consequential, that I really am becoming who I will be for the next stretch of my life. I hope these lessons and learnings guide that time, that process of becoming, which is of course an endless process that never really starts or ends. I think it is useful to consider the same set of questions I wrote about when I left Tanzania: What will I miss about this place? What did I learn? What am I taking with me?

The list of things I will miss is, of course, endless. As with Tanzania, the things I will miss are first and foremost the people, the friends and adventure buddies and classmates with whom I shared every single day from January to June. The people who animated my trail conversations, drove me far distances, made me laugh, and ate the food I cooked them. The people who tolerated my desire for logistical control, made me softer and kinder, were always patient and forgiving. 

I will miss them all for the distinct and special ways they showed up in our friendship and group as a whole. Lily I will miss for never ever missing an adventure, for her love of Sal and commitment to margaritas, for making me laugh every day. Frank I will miss for always putting me in my stretch zone and getting me out of it, for her knowledge of the mountains and willingness to make us all think. Duke I will miss for her endless enthusiasm, for being the strongest of the strong and carrying the rest of us on her back–and for the chickpeas. Dylan I will miss for his commitment to clear communication, for never letting me spend a moment alone, for his impeccable music taste. And Lodie I will miss for our endless giggles and circular conversions, for giving me a reason to smile every day, for her stories. 

I will miss the mountains and the cold sea, the way the landscapes are stacked right on top of each other, the long drives on winding roads, the coconut milk flat white at the Christchurch Public Library. I will miss my ripper of a bike, the bird sounds, the sunrises. I will miss the huts and the hut friends, the gas station pies, the giggles, the ability to do exactly what I want whenever I want. I will miss Sunday night pizza and a beer, the gelato, mac and peas, and even, yes, hiking in the dark. I will miss the native podocarps, the wild birds, the glacial swims. I will miss this extended period of exploration immensely, and look forward to the next one. 

There are so many lessons I have learned this year. Here are just a few of them: 

1. You can meet the expectations you set for yourself. 

2. Hiking should be done in shorts and trail runners. It doesn’t matter if it’s snowing.

3. Walking up a hill is awesome, rewarding, and something I can (and want to) do for way longer than I thought. 

4. Kindness eases change, love quells fear. 

5. Gratitude and presence are two of the most important qualities to keep with you. 

6. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: sometimes the people make the place. Sometimes, the people can even become home. 

7. You have your whole life to share with a romantic partner–you don’t have your whole life to devote to your friends. This time of life is about being weird in public, sleeping like sardines in huts, and shouting your every single thought into the wind on mountain summits with people you didn’t know six months ago.

8. Huts are an awesome way to sleep outside. 

9. Being truly mindful means something different than you thought. Every moment should be about itself, whether that’s drinking a cup of coffee, brushing your teeth, or hiking up a mountain. 

10. Lactose was never the enemy.

11. Comfort never changed anyone. Hiking in the dark, now that shit changes a person. 

12. You can always change how you react. All you can control is the moment you’re in.

13. It could always be worse: you could always have a headache. 

14. Beware of false summits.

15. To be loved is to be known. 

16. You’ll always find a way to make your life what you want it to be. 

17. Generally, as much as possible, you should be having fun. On that note, it’s okay, and even awesome, to be the loudest group of people in a space and the people having the most fun. 

18. It is a privilege to get to show up exactly as you are, to get to start over with a new group of people as the sum of your parts and then slowly dissect those many parts, peeling away the layers to find who you have become. 

19. Always, always bring an emergency cliff bar. And don’t forget to give it away every once in a while. 

There’s a lot I’m taking with me. An excitement to return home to the people and landscapes I know and love, which I hope manifests into a summer of contentment with my choices, the feeling that I made some exceptional decisions this past year and wouldn’t want to change a thing. I like to think I am finally internalizing the idea that nothing is an emergency, that I’m a little more chill than I used to be, less likely to nitpick and more likely to take a deep breath and say “hamna shida” when something goes wrong. I’m taking with me a desire to feel this delighted with my life whenever possible, to be more intentional about how I spend my time and filling my days with the things I love. I’m taking with me a love of walking uphills and riding bikes fast. I’m taking with me my new friends, friendships to watch blossom and change over time, new barn party attendees and a lot of stories to retell with them over and over and over. I’m taking with me an immense appreciation for my home, for the evergreens and rocky coasts, good ice cream and beloved dogs. 

Lastly, I’m taking this section of a Mary Oliver poem which I feel encapsulates how I feel about saying goodbye to this chapter, which is feeling hard and sad but also timely and right. I am taking with me the ability to let go, to let this year drift away and wait to see what it becomes in my memory. Mostly, I’m feeling proud of the decisions I’ve made and excited to see what comes next. And, of course, grateful.

“To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.”

-Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods