A New Path
Have you ever hiked a trail and, halfway up the mountain, lost sight of trail markers?
The woods are lovely, dark and deep…
from Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
It was a delicious mid-September afternoon. My spouse, Joe, and I were halfway through the Hogback Summit Loop Trail in Vermont when he noticed a small path extending off the loop.
We ventured off the primary trail to explore. One step led to another, and we were knee-deep in the undergrowth. When we looked down, all we could see was foliage—no dirt path, no rocks, no evidence of human feet paving a way through the forest. I scanned the trees—no trail marker in sight.
My heart quickened as my mind raced: We had no cellphone service. No backpack. No supplies. No compass.
We were miles (whole states) from home--
I didn’t know whose woods these were
They no longer felt lovely, dark, and deep
Panic surged through my body. Thankfully, breathing and looking into my beloved’s eyes brought me back to the ground. I heard The Voice in my mind: You know how to navigate the woods. This is not your first hike. This is not our first time being lost.
We decided that I would stand still while Joe would venture out to find the trail. We would remain within shouting distance.
Time became elastic and stretchy as a moment felt like hours. The aloneness so lonely. The wait so weighty.
“I FOUND A TRAIL MARKER!” Joe bellowed.
My body felt a wave of relief, more profound and true than words. I FELT I am ok. He is ok. We ARE ok.
The red marks on the tree beckoned us back to the Summit Loop Trail.
You might be wondering how this memory relates to grief, the logistics of after loss, or the existential reckoning I continue as the oldest living person in my family of origin.
So much of my grief and after-loss journey felt like wandering through dark and deep woods. I desperately sought trail markers, forest rangers, or a path in the first weeks and months of Mom and Dad’s deaths. I desperately wanted to return to the primary trail of my life and not be traipsing knee-deep through the underbrush. In fleeting moments, I’d smell something lovely in the woods of grief or catch a hidden glimmer of beauty. But mostly, I felt lost.
Even my relationship with the Divine became foreign. The shifts started in April of 2022 and evolved for the remainder of the year. By the first anniversary of Mom’s death in January of 2023, I surrendered in ways I am only now beginning to language. My relationship with The Divine became primal and visceral…wordless. All of the theological and psychological tomes I’d studied in graduate school no longer anchored me—they weighed me down. I needed to leave them behind to find my way in the woods. My body tuned to the Divine’s words and rhythm. I learned to lean into my deepest self, connecting me with Something Larger that lived in me. Together, we made the path by walking.
Starting The Accidental Matriarch has felt similar to that afternoon on Hogback Mountain. Writing feels like being lost in the deep, dark woods. I no longer fear the losing. I might ache. I might weep and rage. I also feel a joy and gratitude that borders on bliss. The simplest moments are so precious. We have THIS day,and I get to be lost in the woods discovering…it’s magical and Mysterious and awesome.
These woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
I have also discovered some truths inside myself as I wandered and wrote. Here’s a brief summary:
Writing for paid subscribers who get “special things” above and beyond unpaid subscribers intrudes on my relationship with the Mystery of writing and my love of the deep dark woods that live within me. Honestly, it awakens the Good Girl in me who wants to perform, perfect, and please you. And though I could work this through, I don’t want to.
I want to write.
I want to share my writing with you.
I want to offer what I have.
I see value in writing and creation—mine, yours, everyone’s.
I will shift from a subscriber model to a donation model.
This shift feels so right and true to me.
And I still appreciate your support. Here are a few ways you can support me:
Comment on my pieces and share your thoughts.
Repost my work.
If you think my work could support a person you know, take the risk of sending it. (I promise if they’re grieving, they’re likely thinking about their loss, so your sending it isn’t going to suddenly remind them they lost someone or something of value to them)
Make a financial donation.
Let me know what you’d like to learn more about.
Send my work and me your loving kindness and intentions.
Thank you for spending your precious time with me. Thank you for following me off the path and into the woods.
With you on the journey,
Megan (AKA The Accidental Matriarch)
Beautiful. Having been lost (briefly) in the actual woods and also through my own journeys of loss and grief, those trail blazes are a most welcome site. Whether a trail marker on a tree, digging in the earth in the garden to process grief, or a myriad of other things.
Beautiful, Megan! I relate. As a Crisis Navigation Partner®, every time I face a new type of crisis, with a client or a loved one, I feel that momentary sense of being lost. And then I find comfort when I remember I am never truly alone. As my friend Ken says, "Individually we can do hard things. Together we can do the impossible." Thanks for sharing your content in this new model!