Days 64-66: Everything Is Everything

LOGAN LAKE STATE PARK, OH —

May 27-29, 2024

Days 64-66:

Greg,

As I lie in my tent listening to droplets pitter-patter atop my nylon rain cover, I can’t help but imagine each one has something to say to the other.

What does it mean to have something to say? Is it the same as “can’t help but imagine?” Perhaps I can hear the rain speak because it is roughly 60% of me.

You said “everything is everything” on the phone the other day. I heard that rain drop, too.

A drop to my left on the rain cover is quickly followed by a drop to my right. A drop on the leaves above is quickly followed by a drop on the mossy log below. The sound of each drop is undeniably similar, but when I really listen, each one rings a different tune, even when one drop lands right where another just was. I suppose the nylon, the leaves, and the log are all speaking, too—everything the rain touches touches it back.

The voice of rain reminds me of our conversations. Maybe this is because rain is where the river comes from, and from the river came the vertebrae. We were the fish once.

Your vertebrae knows the weight of trauma, and yet, not even a collapsing truck can crush the fish in you. You have found and are finding new ways to swim. You are the river, and the water has always known where it is going.

“Listen to the river,” you texted once as I sauntered beside the Manistee River along the North Country Scenic Trail in northern Michigan. “She has a lot to say.”

I’m listening, friend.

I have returned to that trail now. The North Country Scenic Trail and the American Discovery Trail are hosted by the Buckeye Trail; the three are one through southern Ohio. Their mark is a dash of blue paint adorned over trees, road signs, and trailheads showing the way.

The last three days have consisted of walking through the grass, rock, and mud of this trail, with breaks of road walking in between. Recent thunderstorms have uprooted and thrust many trees along the path into their final sleep. I’ve climbed over their corpses, cursing at them, as if they were still alive and had just cut me off in traffic.

In Thich Naht Hanh’s book “Peace Is Every Step,” which I’ve been listening to as I walk, he questions the effectiveness of pillow-punching—violence toward an inanimate object as a method for venting our anger.

“We call this ‘getting in touch with our anger,’ but I don’t think this is getting us in touch with our anger at all.” Hanh says. “In fact, I don’t think it is even getting in touch with our pillow. If we’re really in touch with our pillow, we know what a pillow is, and we won’t hit it.”

I could not control my laughter after hearing this wisdom. The more it sunk in, the more hilarious my anger appeared to me. I remembered the fallen trees and the absurdity of my pissy attitude toward them. For what reason did I curse them? Let the dead rest.

A perspective more in line with the true nature of pillows: There is a familiarity here in Ohio; it reminds me of the comfort of home. The Midwest carries with it a spirit of humility and “earn your keep” that makes me feel safe yet not complacent.

Today, I am searching for my voice in that spirit. Everything is everything. The three overlapping trails come to mind; you and I are on different trails, but it’s one path.

Another rain drop visits my tent, quickly followed by another. And another. And another. There is a transformation taking place. I can feel it.

I think it’s you, Greg.

Change to live.

- Zach