Flower Roads

"Normality is a paved road. It's comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow."

This line was originally uttered by a Mr. Vincent Van Gogh. 

If I recall correctly, I do not believe he was the poster child for mental stability. But that is beside the point. What interests me is the idea of roads– how we choose them and how many choices we have. 

I am at a time in my life where when I look to the future, I see many different roads. Some were paved, some were covered in flowers, some were winding, some were straight and narrow, shaded, and in sunlight. However, the roads that look the prettiest, draped in wildflowers, are also the ones that are the most structurally unsound. The ones with the most risk. The one my parents would probably warn me about– lacking health insurance and retirement plans. 

It was said that Vincent Van Gogh's parents did not approve of his chosen path as an artist. Yet, he persisted despite this economic insecurity. But not everyone finds success at the end of a path such as this. That's what makes it unstable. That's what scares me. 

All of these potential paths circled my mind as I stared down at my Chaco-clad feet, walking the far more literal trail in Southern California, about an hour and a half away from UC Santa Barbara, where I attend school. The landscape around me is chaparral, rolling green hills and mountains speckled with scrubby green trees. Winding around each hill is a river that forks frequently, resulting in over twenty river crossings as we make our way to the historic Manzana schoolhouse, nine miles in. It's the kind of landscape that is so classically California that it could be pasted on the front of a chardonnay bottle. Within the hills are the twisting oaks, lizards skittering across the rocks, a red tail hawk circling above. 

I decided to go on this impromptu Sunday backpacking trip with two of my buddies about twenty minutes before actually packing the car. The plan was no plan, which has often resulted in my favorite memories. We threw our gear together with the speed and efficiency of people who do this often– my lighter, water filter and card deck already zipped into the brain of my pack from the last trip. For this is the beauty of three college girls who love the outdoors and do not have class until 2pm on Monday. 

Of the three of us, one of us has already graduated recently and has a corporate job lined up. The other does not graduate until next year. Like a middle child, I am the one yet to graduate and looking at this impending life even with equal parts excitement and terror. 

I have had the privilege of loving college. UCSB was never my dream school but with its incredible Environmental Studies program and insane location (when else am I going to have the opportunity to live on the beach?) It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. 

I joined an outdoor club that shoved me so deep into the world of outdoor sports and adventures that there is no resurfacing now. I'm a surfer with a growing "quiver" of longboards, each tuned to different swells and conditions. I'm a scuba diver working toward my scientific research diving certification. I'm a Wilderness First Responder. I climbed Whitney last fall with my friends basically on a whim. 

Now, it is time to look at all these potential paths, some of which are law school or ending up in a corporate 9 to 5, and I wonder if I can go back. Back to a world where the outdoors are a weekend novelty, not an integrated part of the day-to-day.

I glanced up from the trail and saw my friends take off, running through the open grass field, arms out like airplanes, turquoise backpacking packs jostling as they hooped and hollered. Back in the moment, I took off after them, eventually coming upon the next river crossing. Without a word, we shed our sandals and walked barefoot through the shallows; cold water stang my toes. We continued barefoot for the next mile.

Apparently, it is good for grounding, and perhaps Van Gogh could have used it in his life. Who knows. 

To an outsider, we probably looked feral. Three wild women charging through the forest in Patagonia baggies and sweaty t-shirts. But I have never felt more at peace. There is something about those moments– looking up from beneath a tree canopy, watching the sunlight filter through the orange leaves, inhaling the scent of wet earth and fresh oxygen.  

I did not always feel this way about the outdoors. As a kid, my parents had to drag me on hikes. I would complain for the first half-hour, dragging behind until I felt the shift. I no longer focused on how long we had remaining (which would always be longer than planned due to my parents' frequent fibbing about the distance) and instead felt the joy kick in. Call it endorphins or the beauty of nature, or what have you, but I would always forget I did not want to be there. 

My childhood was spent in Arizona, where hikes meant saguaro-dotted mountains and fiery red rocks. Camelback Mountain in Phoenix. Sedona's mesas. I wish I'd appreciated it more then. But hey, I eventually came around. I came around so much that I am an Environmental Studies major, planning a career in some kind of environmental defense, trying to help this planet survive us. I used to think that path would involve law school. Now, I am not so sure. Seems a bit paved. 

I believe my father chose a paved path. A good, stable road. I am grateful for it because it gave me a childhood of security and opportunities. But I do not believe he has reached true happiness, or if he has, it is found only in parts of his life. 

Is it possible to have a life where happiness isn't fleeting? Where you can love what you do, be passionate about your job, your location, your friends, your family. I hear it exists, but I do not believe I have seen it firsthand. Maybe I could be the first in my family. It is a privilege to even ask these questions, I know. But even Van Gogh, a starving artist, made it work. Sort of. And now is the time to ask these questions. A twenty-one year old standing at a mega fork in the road.

A few months ago, I was on a chair lift in Tahoe, sitting next to a man who looked to be in his early sixties. He randomly turned to me and said, "Do not become a cog in the machine. Do not go corporate." I asked him what he did for work, and he went on about NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) he had worked for, his time in the Peace Corps, and his time as an EMT. In my eyes, his life was the definition of a windy road. But he seemed very content about it. He had made it work and got to travel and see the world while working jobs he loved. I do not know any details as to whether he went through some hard years, but for the most part, it seemed he was now doing just fine. 

It gave me some hope, but it would be remiss to pick the windy road just because I met a cool guy on a chair lift who made it seem like everything worked out easy peasy. 

Chacos back on, we reached camp as the clouds took on a honey appearance, the sun setting behind the hills. We chose the rocky shore of the river, and divided camp duties. I was responsible for starting dinner while the other two built the tent and fire. 

Propane attached, jetboil on, water filtered, and the tall boy I had stuffed into my pack cracked open. Life was good. 

Just three women in the woods gathering', building,' cookin', and laughing.' 

Music played from a tiny JBL speaker– mostly classic rock and the Grateful Dead– while the fire pops and spites. The hangnail of a moon rose above the hills, while the river rushed over the large tan boulders. We played card games, swapped stories, and contemplated our trail thoughts as a group. Turns out one of us spent most of the trail thinking of her long-distance love in Australia. The other was thinking about job applications. And me– which road to take. 

But we were calmed by the idea of keeping a group chat of us and all our friends going, always sending "quests" into the chat, inviting all others to tag along on future life adventures. 

Out there in the valley, despite the onslaught of thoughts, life still felt simple. Distilled down to walk, eat, sleep…stay warm. Back to the original roots. Sometimes it feels like the best road would be pulling a Forrest Gump and just running on forever. Maybe more of a granola version of that— completing the Pacific Crest Trail. 

But that's just a small escape from life. 

So the question remains: Is there a flower-filled road that doesn't crumble beneath your feet? Not only beautiful but stable, too? 

Lord, I hope so.