For weeks after my dad died in January, the thought of traveling turned my stomach. I looked back on

For weeks after my dad died in January, the thought of traveling turned my stomach. I looked back on the times I’d spent my vacations going anywhere but home, and felt sick about the fact that I could have used that time to see my dad. He was a man of few words and always encouraged me to do what I wanted; but he also never really asked for what he wanted. I couldn’t help looking back and feeling guilty, regretful – wondering if he’d said those things but had secretly been disappointed that I didn’t seem to care enough to see him more often. So even though I’d been planning an adventurous trip for this year – probably the Inca Trail – I couldn’t bear to pursue those plans any more after he died. For a few weeks, I bitterly and genuinely felt like it had all been a waste of time, and none of it had truly mattered. I’d been superficial. Flighty. Irresponsible. A disappointing daughter. Focused on the wrong things. What did seeing the world matter when my dad was gone? When he gave up so much for me, only for me to spend my free time going elsewhere? I’m not sure what it was – probably some combination of time, denial, grief counseling and a gentle but persistent reminder from my inner self. But about six weeks later, I suddenly found myself fantasizing about going on my second solo trip. The feeling felt familiar, but different. Bittersweet. I was at once relieved and repulsed. But my inner voice was insistent and kept telling me that I needed to do this for myself, even if I didn’t understand why, even if I felt guilty. I decided to postpone the Inca Trail… I didn’t crave that kind of adventure anymore. Instead, I wanted to go somewhere that was both different and familiar. And my subconscious was very stubborn, with one destination in mind: Ireland. I’ve been here once before, two years ago, and at the time I made a mental note to come back one day and explore some of the national parks. And today, on my first full day in Ireland, I visited Connemara National Park and climbed the Diamond Hill trail. The trail supposedly takes a couple hours to walk, but I took my sweet time and spent the entire day there, stopping for pictures and to chat with other hikers. The first two thirds of the trail were easy, with pretty views of the ocean and mountains. The final third was a bit more rocky, steep and strenuous, but maybe it just felt that way when compared to the flat lands of Florida! At the summit, I was doing my photo-taking comedy routine… using a mini portable tripod and running into place before the timer went off, a practice that is comical and entertaining to bystanders and also produces much better solo travel photos than a selfie stick (in my opinion). Mid-routine, a couple approached and asked if I wanted them to take a picture for me. We talked for a few minutes and I discovered that one of them was originally from Michigan. When he found out that I was, too, he randomly asked, “Do you know who Tom Izzo is?” Of course I did – he was pretty much my dad’s idol, and I cheered for his basketball teams every March because of that. The man continued, “Because actually, my dad was Tom Izzo’s basketball coach when he was a kid. And his dad always repaired my shoes.” So there I was, thousands of miles from home on a vacation motivated by my need to process my grief, standing at the top of a minor mountain, and a stranger came up to me and brought up Michigan State basketball. The one thing I knew my dad would always want to talk about. The one thing that made him happy (unless they lost a game, of course). The irony is that a part of me was so desperate to come here because I wanted to escape – as if I could cross an ocean and leave the clouds behind me. As if a change of scenery was all I needed to stop feeling lost and bitter and irritable and guilty. And yet my dad had followed me. Because the truth is, when you’re on your own in a foreign country and/or a nature trail, escape is impossible. It’s just you and your issues sizing each other up and circling each other warily. And now I know why I’m really here, trekking through Ireland alone: It’s to figure out a way to accept or at least stop resisting my new reality, my new normal. My new identity as a fatherless daughter, as a human being experiencing the grief that I can barely wrap my head around and never really get over. It’s to learn how to move forward. Onward over the rocky path. -- source link
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