Two Weeks Later . . .

(Zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero . . .  Sigh.)

I know some people are wondering how I am doing now that I am back in the regular world.  And, actually, I have been wondering the same thing.  Here's the quick-and-dirty update:

Today, I did not cry at Jazzercise.

That's right.  I did not cry at Jazzercise.  This may not sound like much, but it really sums up how I am doing.  I have been back in Oregon for two weeks.  This past Tuesday was the first time I went back to Jazzercise.  I was excited to go.  And I am glad that I did.  But I did cry.  No, no one there seemed to catch on.  It was a tear-up, bite-your-lip, and-give-yourself-a-stern-lecture-about-no-crying-at-Jazzercise kind of cry.  Why did I want to cry?  Well, I have been crying almost daily since my return, for one.  And I was incredibly humbled, for two.

Thanks, friends, for the welcome home party!
Things like this have helped me come to terms with my new life . . .

Daily crying sounds a little crazy.  It sounds crazy to me, and I am the one doing it.  But it is okay.  I am not moping around the house, and I am not a total wreck.  But at some point each day, I seem to break down.  I'd say about half of it is my feet.  My feet hurt.  I am resting and taking care of them, but I do need to walk sometimes, and when I do, it hurts.  Even with ibuprofen and tylenol, inserts and tape, ice and heat, massage and stretching, rest and nighttime braces, my feet hurt.  Going from 25 miles a day with a pack to zero miles a day with a hobble is both frustrating and humbling.  I am having a hard time accepting it.  When I went to Jazzercise, I found myself doing the "low impact" version of the routines.  It wasn't a conscious decision so much as simply what my body was going to allow me to do.  When I realized that I couldn't get my feet in the air even if I wanted to, I almost lost it.  Fortunately, it is hard to cry to bumping dance music.

I think the other half of the daily catharsis is just the return to this regular world.  It is a bit of a shock.  I have talked to a few friends about this, and, surprisingly, most people seem to understand it.  My Jazzer-bud, Jean, compared it to pregnancy.  Nine months of build-up for one day, and then, all of a sudden, everything is different.  Postpartum.  Post-trailum?  Post-PCTum?  My fellow-ranger, Matt, compared it to returning home after living overseas.  He spent the school year in Germany last year.  Culture shock?  And my fellow-EMS responder, Mike, compared it to returning home after war.  He fought in Vietnam and likened the intensity of the experience with a small group of people to the life of a thru-hiker.  Post-traumatic stress?  Post-Trail stress?  Do we need a support group for PCT thru-hikers?

Meet Dakota, the newest addition to the family.
He loves hot sauce, cheese, and coffee; killing fingers, toes, and bumps under the blankets.
Two pounds of pure joy.  Welcome, kitters!

Mostly, I think I am adjusting well.  I am happy to be home.  I did get my kitten, a little grey tiger boy named Dakota.  (He's passed out in my lap as I write, his little feet twitching with dreams of kitten-kills.)  I go back to work on Tuesday and am excited about it.  I've sorted and cleaned most of my gear.  I have returned to Jazzercise and the fire department.  I have called my friends and my family and started making plans for next month or two.  I am in the midst of putting my affairs back in order.  Everything is going relatively well.  So, what is it?  It is probably a combination of things.  A sense of loss for the Trail and my fellow thru-hikers.  A feeling of vulnerability from my feet.  The growing pains associated with any major life change.  The lack of closure on a five-month journey.  The realization that I can no longer buy a bottle of pop, a tub of Ben and Jerry's, a bag of Doritos, a candy bar, and a carton of Oreos at the grocery store anymore . . . and eat them all in one sitting.

Gumby and I paid a visit to Voodoo Doughnuts in Portland as our last hurrah.
I can't keep eating like this!

Today, I did not cry at Jazzercise.  And, I did not lay in bed for an extra ten minutes dreading those first few steps.  True, this is partly because I only had fifteen minutes to get myself up and out and to class (after getting up at 5:30 AM for five months, I have taken to the luxury of sleeping in!)  But it is also because my feet have felt slightly better the last three or four days.  Really, the return from the Trail seems to be like the beginning of the journey itself.  The first days and weeks are the hardest, full of pains and tears, an emotional rollercoaster.  After a month, your mind and body start settling in and confidence returns.  After a month and half, you reach the Kennedy Meadows of the journey (the entrance to the grand Sierras!), and you're ready to take on anything that comes your way.  Here's to life's journey and enjoying all of the places--light and dark--that it takes us.