The Hill

When a new season invites a shift

A hill in my new apartment complex is turning into the invitation/annoyance I didn’t know I needed.

I’ve walked my neighborhood streets daily since 2017 in Anchorage, Alaska, when I started really dealing with my anxiety. Since then, I depend on accessible walking spaces from my home everyday for my mental health. Each place we’ve lived has offered beautiful spaces to move my body.

Marysville was mostly flat when I needed a season of ease and support as I did really hard work. Then I got to Edmonds and the whole bowl area was built into a gentle slope. But the Puget Sound was at the bottom of the hill so I had no problem navigating the easier hills because the ocean was my reward.

But Salem? These hills in South Salem are no joke. They’re everywhere. We’ve been house shopping and found perfect homes in our price range but they’re on super steep hills. We drive up to an open house and before we even park in the driveway, I say, “Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. The kids can’t ride bikes here. I can’t walk here. Our parents can’t park their RV here. Nope.”

Then we finally find a temporary apartment and I snag the last available 3 bedroom, sight unseen. Imagine my naive surprise when my husband visits town ahead of our arrival and sends a video of him driving up the steep steep hill to get to our apartment. @#$%&!

A few weeks later, we move in. The first day I realize there’s a mostly flat trail where people walk their dogs to another neighborhood through an overgrown forest area. Score! But then one day there was a snake on the trail and I needed a few days off from putting my feet in that space. I was stuck.

To the left? Snakes.
To the right? The Hill.

I went for it. I’d had a terrible mental health day the day before so I know I needed this walk. My body had to move. To process. To feel. To reflect.

Starting down the hill, my knees try to slow my body’s descent. Arriving at the bottom, to my delightful surprise, the neighborhood across the street is mostly flat. And it stretches for miles. I joyfully traverse sidewalks and flowers and parked cars. I feel a few emotions floating in my body. I listen to the early morning June nature sounds. I feel clean air in my lungs. Perfect. I feel alive again.

Then I round the corner and come face to face with The Hill.

I think, “This is ridiculous. This hill cannot keep me from my mental health and wellbeing. Maybe, instead of being a block, this hill can be an invitation.”

I take ten steps up and pause. Another ten steps and pause. Showing my body she can do this. Slowly.

About halfway up as I pause to catch my breath, I realize this hill is the perfect metaphor for this season.

It’s super tempting to copy and paste what I’ve done before in my work life. But this new context isn’t like any other place I’ve served. It’s going to stretch and challenge me in ways I don’t understand yet. I don’t want to fight that. I want to cultivate an open posture to what might unfold. To bring my hard-won skills mixed in with a lot of flexibility and curiosity. And a pace that can slowly warm my body up to what’s needed in this season.

It’s going to feel like hard work, just like this hill. And maybe I’m more ready than I thought.

---

Reflection

What about you, my reader?

Do you find yourself in a season that invites (or demands) a different kind of presence or skill? Where is it tempting to overlay how you’ve done it before but that’s not what’s actually needed now?

Is there a shift or value or old narrative that needs a second look now that you’re in this new season?

Cheering you on every step of the way.

Grace, my friend.

---

“Rev. Jenny Smith has opened her heart and let the readers feel the many different emotions that are part of grief.  The poems are poignant and raw at times and yet this is the experience of most people when they lose someone who is dear to them.  As a psychologist and spiritual director, I believe this book will be helpful to many people who will feel that their emotions are shared and understood by someone else and therefore are not alone in their grief.” — Rev. Dr. Denise McGuiness