Can we ever go back? And I mean to anything, anything at all.

We, as human beings, keep saying, “When I recover …” But isn’t that going back to, in this case, a previous condition? Maybe a condition we had before an injury, hoping we’ll be able to run just as fast as before the injury? Maybe going back to a state of well-being before we became ill or received a serious diagnosis? Maybe going back to a feeling of security before we lost our job or had some other traumatic experience? The term “recovery” implies a return to a place, where or when, all was fine.

For me, I question whether that is possible at all. My bodily injury may improve; the bone may heal but now there is a bump where there wasn’t any before. And I can move again but it feels different. As far as becoming ill, the virus may dissipate with the help of my immune system, but I have a lingering cough that just doesn’t want to leave. It lingers for years. And that feeling of security, does it ever return once we experience insecurity? If we find a new job, better than the previous, it helps, especially if we are happier and feel valued. But has that fear really disappeared, never to be triggered again? Or are we a bit more sensitive to insecure situations, still?

With a traumatic experience, the road to what some may call recovery may be long and involved, if it ever really resolves itself. And each of the previously mentioned situations may be traumatic for the individual involved. Who’s to say? What I’m trying to say is that everything that happens to us causes change in some way, internally or externally or both.

There is no going back; it will never be the same. And that isn’t a bad thing. Looking ahead, it certainly can be better with new surprises and new adventures. We may meet new people because of the changes that have taken place. We may be led to a new area to live, to work, to play or to a new career entirely.

I often think of a time when, as a youth, I would often seek out a specific large rock in the woods on the property where I grew up. There were wild blackberry bushes all around and a huge ancient maple tree beside that rock. A dark oblong woodpecker hole in the trunk of that tree held a notebook and pencil I had placed there, hidden from all but the wildlife that roamed nearby. There I would sit upon my rock and write poetry. Those poems described all the anxieties I had about family and friendships. I wrote about my fears and the injustices I witnessed or was the recipient of. That rock was where I let it all out. With the wind blowing through my hair and the birds singing from the ancient maple, that setting gave me hope and solace in my confusion about growing up. I felt supported and of value there.

As I got older, of course, my visits to that rock began to wane and finally became nonexistent. In my mid-20s, I returned to that rock on one of my visits home. It was hard to find among the pine trees that had grown up around it. It seemed all but obliterated, looking so small surrounded by the taller trees. The blackberry bushes that had previously supplied my daily snack were gone, having been killed out by the pines. And I was surprised to find the ancient maple tree totally rotted now and broken down. I found a foothold and climbed upon my rock, sitting on top as I so often had done in my youth. But, I didn’t feel the degree of support I had remembered. So much had changed in the setting; so much had changed in my life. Yet, I had expected it to be the same as in my youth. I had needed that emotional support years before and had found it there, grounded in Mother Nature. I came away with a heavy heart but a deep realization that I couldn’t really go back.

The experience was there in my past. The closest I could come is when I could conjure up within me that feeling of being supported upon my rock when I most needed it, sitting on the side hill beside the ancient tree with blackberry bushes surrounding me.

That setting had given me hope, as the memory of it does to this very day. I realized that just as I had changed, so had this special place of mine. My expectation of the experience being exactly the same as I remembered had been skewed. How often do we return to a place, expecting it to look the same or for us to have the same delightful experience as we had the very first time we were there? It’s never the same; it can’t be the same.

Change is continual. It’s ongoing. Change doesn’t stop. Change … just … is. The past is the past; we can’t go back but we can have a new delightful experience in the present. It’s all in our outlook. And we are in control of that.

The future may hold a new adventure in living and being and growing. We may not totally recover from anything. But we change and go on, carrying that bump where our leg was broken, maybe carrying that lingering cough, maybe housing those feelings of insecurity, but we do go on — a changed and evolving human being. For we have developed an awareness of how we can have a healthier outlook on our life, our everyday life, going forward.

— — —

Debby Havas is an author living in Jay. Her writings describe her experiences in the healing energies of Mother Nature.