On trusting what you can't see
Meditations on liminal space.
Ever since our girls were old enough to walk, we’ve been talking about Switzerland. “Let’s get in some walking practice — this is Swiss training!” The experience of hiking in the Alps has deep roots in Jon’s family, reflecting the decades of trips they led through his father’s group travel business. My own initiation came in 2004, and now, 20 years later, we have finally taken our two teenage daughters to this glorious landscape in July, celebrating Lucy’s high school graduation.
After settling in for a couple of days, we began embarking on regular hiking adventures. We got good at remembering sunscreen, tieing our hiking boots properly, and planning for snack breaks. But, frustratingly, the weather would not cooperate. Thick clouds settled outside the front door of our mountain flat, flowing in freely through the open windows like the ghosts of hikes never to be taken.
Clouds outside our front door — literally.
One day, after nearly abandoning the planned hike altogether due to the risk of dangerous weather, the forecast cleared and we took train, cable car, and our determined feet up to Le Chamossaire, a mountain near our home base of Gryon. The peak was clouded all around, isolating us from the surrounding area save for a few openings in the mist where we glimpsed tiny toy-like villages, miniature roads, and groves of trees in the valley. An incongruously automated voice chattered on in German from a scenic overlook shelter while a mountain goat chewed placidly near the peak. We took the latter as a good sign, and proceeded hiking along the ridge.
In July, one can view the wildflowers at their most beautiful, and so we studied them, watching our footing along the rocky path. The cloud cover hung around us like a soggy beach towel, sometimes blocking my view so that I couldn’t quite see one or both of our children as they walked on ahead. Practically moment by moment, we lost sight of one part of the surrounding landscape while another one opened up. But always we could see our feet, the path, the wildflowers in bloom, and the unconcerned mountain goats nearby. We stepped steadily through this in-between space, appreciating the beauty around us even as we looked forward to our destination.
When we finally reached the next peak (“Le Petit Chamossaire”), we sat gratefully at a picnic bench, snacking on Milka chocolate bars and sipping water. (Oh, for a flask of coffee!) Jon looked back at our path. “Wow! I’m glad I didn’t realize how treacherous that path was while we were hiking on it,” he said. “Only now can I see how dangerous the drop-off was.”
I reclined for a moment on the wooden picnic bench, feeling a fleeting glimpse of warmth from the sun as it wrestled past the clouds. It felt good to rest. I hadn’t realized how challenging the path would be, and how challenging it felt to manage my own steps while actively not-worrying about our kids and their own hiking skills.
The trip reflected my own inner landscape in so many ways — entering into a new family adventure, we’re watching our footing but trusting that our children have had enough “Swiss training” to stay upright and not tumble off the side of a cliff. Although we aren’t always together — or even in sight of one another — we were able to trust that we were heading together toward a common destination, a place of rest and nourishment. But walking through liminal space takes discipline and concentration, focusing on the tasks (and beauty) in our immediate vicinity, even when we don’t fully understand the risks of our path.
Our cloud-filled hike ended with a delicious lunch of fondue at a mountain bistro.
Perhaps this will be a little bit like the rest of our lives? Perhaps this will even be a little bit like the 2024 presidential election? Although the experience of unknowing pushes all of my discomfort buttons, I’m learning that in it, one can always find some hope, some agency, and and opportunity for trusting others — and if it includes Swiss chocolate, I’m hoping we all might just be okay.
Tidbits
I’m writing this on Election Day in the U.S. — November 5, 2024 — and we’re all waiting to know what the future holds. The risks for our country are great, but I’m leaning into hope. Here are a few things I’ve found encouraging over the past days and weeks.
Action. I’m not the only one feeling anxious in this election cycle, and I’ve been grateful for a few ways to “do something” as Michelle Obama encouraged us. Jon and I voted last week, Lucy sent in her mail-in ballot (first presidential election for her!), and I’ve been phone banking at least once a week for the past month.
Cooking. In times of stress, I turn toward the kitchen — and today is no exception. We’re looking forward to hosting our good friend Ken for dinner and news-watching this evening, and I’m leaning into hopefulness with our menu! The peanut-butter-marshmallamala brownies just came out of the oven and they smell amazing.
Watching. Thank God for the comics! Between Saturday Night Live and Stephen Colbert, we’ve been able to laugh over our hopes and fears for at least the past eight years. I’ve watched this episode on repeat and it brings me to happy tears every time. Keep calmala and carry onala!
Preparing. I’m grateful for the many people encouraging us all to remember that the results may take a few days to come in — and that this is okay, it’s all part of democracy working. I appreciated this post from Kristin du Mez with resources to help diffuse political violence and protect free and fair elections.
There is no line! Everyone voted early! Also, my deer-in-the-headlights expression makes me laugh — and feels pretty accurate today.
Praying. What else can we do? I soothed my own soul this morning with a walk near our polling place, praying for safety and peace and order throughout our country as those final ballots are cast and as the counting commences in earnest. And I loved this election day liturgy from Emily P. Freeman. No matter what the outcome, we will still need to live together, and I appreciate her words about how to move toward that kind of community. (There’s a transcript if you prefer that to listening.)
Thank you.