Add to that, working with the inherent judgments that arise for those not wearing masks and those not even attempting to honor social distancing, taking time to implore store management to require masks for all patrons, and taking time to catch up on news. By the time I returned home, I was exhausted, stressed and discouraged. The virus was now acting in differing ways, there was the growing conflict with those that wanted to open up the economy and those that felt it was too risky, and the ongoing saga of mishandled leadership  as the administration continued to stumble along.

All this was a perfect storm for feeling hopeless, sad and depressed. And I did. I got home and cried in the shower--the shower that now needed to follow a trip into town just to be sure every chance of the virus' survival is washed away.

{I recently completed an eleven month project, the Lake Family Resource Center's California HOPE project,  leading a team working with fire survivors of the Mendocino Complex fire in Northern California. As part of my closure for this project, as well as my growing interest in solo backpacking, I hiked a small, iconic, portion of the John Muir Trail. This series is a reflection and a taste of insights I received from that journey.}

In 2018 my planned John Muir Trail hike in Yosemite National Park was hijacked by smoke from the Fergusen Fire. I took an alternate trek in the park to Vogelsang (read more about that adventure here), but within three days, Yosemite Valley was shut down and I found my way back to base camp.

As I drove home to Lake County, the Mendocino Complex Fire, now known as California's largest wildfire in recorded history, had just broken out. I was hearing reports via phone never imagining what the next year would hold for me as I drove from one set of smokey mountains to another. By October, I was invited to lead the FEMA funded project.

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This year in Lake County a few small fires have broken out throughout the summer. Residents here, triggered again and again as each golden-green patch burns, have been living with catastrophic fire since the summer of 2015 when three devastating fires, including the Valley Fire, consumed nearly a third of the county.

It was in July, the beginning of fire season in Lake County and about a month away from completion of the project, that my self care and wellness started slipping. The project itself had a strong self-care component for the team--a team that would meet directly with survivors, help them navigate resources, common reactions to disasters, and learn to set priorities and take small steps toward their recovery.

But, between this project and completing a year long mindfulness teacher training (along with all the usual busyness of life!) I started to slip. I was staying up late watching movies or shopping online. I was eating bigger portions and lots of sugar--things I usually resort to when I'm tired and need to push through what's on my plate, rather than glide with joy through the day's adventure. I was distancing in my intimate relationship, but most importantly, though, I was losing touch with the sacredness of the moment.

By a  few weeks before the end of the project, fatigue took over and I had to rest. I intended to be hiking 3+ miles with full weight (35 pounds) at least two times per week by this time. But instead, I had to set it all aside, only doing the very minimum to get through the day.