Regression

Great Sand Dunes National Park, Fall 2020. My first hike after a long sedentary spell brought on by a sludgy combination of the lockdown and recovery from a concussion.

I stood before 800 foot high dunes nestled in the midst of the Rockies. Back in nature. Back to drive. It wouldn’t be hard. I pointed to a top spot, chose a ridge of sand, and began to walk. And as I walked, the short stretch of sand kept stretching. My perspective got played.

Each time I stepped up, I’d sink. Or I’d slide down 5 feet with lungs wrestling for air in the Colorado elevation. Covered in sand, heart pounding to process oxygen, I slumped; clinging to a slope that wanted me to move down. To regress.

As I sat there, I realized this was the perfect hike after what I’d been through. I wasn’t regressing. Nature was slowing me down, letting me settle. Clear and direct paths weren’t relevant. I had to meander and find gradual passages up. Steadier, I moved along with the shifting surface. Less rigid, more fluid.

Life shifts. Life changes. It’s the one thing we can count on. We don’t have to fight it. Steps that may feel sinking or backwards may simply be a loving tug towards rest, towards groundedness. Nudging us closer to steadier evolution.