Part One: Hiking My Feelings up to Eagle Peak in Yosemite National Park

I haven't had energy move through my body like this since I was on the Trans-Catalina Trail last year. Full stop, keeled over, hands on knees as if bracing for some kind of impact, silently screaming while sobbing violently.

This isn't a single-tear Oscar moment.
This isn't even an ugly cry.
This is an exorcism.
This is me shedding layers.
This is me peeling back another layer of this onion, burning down my limiting beliefs, and rising from the ashes.

And it happened multiple times yesterday on our way up to Eagle Peak.

This view in particular was only a mile into our 13+ mile journey and after seeing the first rays of sunlight to kiss the valley below Taft Point, I cried. I cried for my friend Graham who died here in 2015.

I cried for Adam, who should have been here to hike this with us, to experience life in this way, with us.

I cried for Chris, who, if that bill about nature therapy for veterans becomes a law, might have come here to find peace after multiple tours overseas instead of taking his own life.

I cried for my Uncle, who I hadn't previously had time to grieve properly.

And I cried for myself.

I had a full on pity party for myself, for what, I don't know. I just cried and cried and cried with no clue as to why. And as I reflect on it all today, as I look back over these pictures, I know why. I know exactly why.

When it starts with grief over friends who have passed, I know what follows. The stuff about me. The stuff I've been ignoring. The work I haven't done. The lessons I know I've learned but have been too scared to put into practice.

The things that need space and attention to heal first need the light. The awareness. And as this light washed over the valley and my face, I felt the blinders coming off again.

I wasn't bracing for impact while I was keeled over, allowing these tears to flow out of my body like the Merced river flows through this valley.

I was bracing myself for what comes next.

to be continued