Can you hear me now?
on the trail between despair and hope: hearing aid batteries and red cups.
The past number of years has been particularly rough, a kind of slow and steady soul-decline, at times almost imperceptible and at others a rapid descent, like a slip and fall down a greasy flight of stairs. For a while, I thought it was pandemic-related. But as I began to unstack the boxes of unattended wounds, I realized the timeline went much farther back than 2020 and the beginning of the pandemic.
But, on October 28th, 2024, a six-week-pay-intentional-attention time began for me. On that Monday, I had a bit of a breakdown. There was weeping, gnashing of teeth, the strong desire to crawl right back into bed and stay there. A maelstrom of difficult feelings including the (sometimes whispered, sometimes hollered) feeling of “perhaps jumping off a bridge would be an easy solution” rolled around in me.
I know myself well enough to know: this is what my landscape of despair looks like, and if I kick things around a bit, paying close AND healthy attention, some kind of pathway becomes visible. On that pathway, I can pick may way through the despair to an area of hope again. Physical walking helps with this re-organization of internal landscape and pathway-finding.
On Monday October 28th, anticipating the land of icky feelings, a chunk of time had been carved out of that day for a nice long hike on a loop section of the Bruce Trail. By planning to give space, time and outlet to the feelings, the no jumping off of bridges sign was duly installed! The feeling of feelings could safely ensue.
My dearly beloved dog, Mr Parker and I head out with me feeling grumpy and sad, and Parkie mostly off-leash as I train him in re-call using a handy beep collar.
This training has allowed me to notice Parkie has some rather annoying proclivities. When he is off-leash, I keep a close eye, to make sure he doesn’t engage in any of his top three favourite off-leash activities:
creature chasing (chipmunks, squirrels and rabbits are fairly harmless, but I watch for skunks and porcupines).
poop-rolling and/or poop-eating (any kind of poop will do, but cat or fisher poop seems to be his favourite - the stinkier the better).
dead-thing-rolling-in or dead-thing-eating (again, any kind of dead thing will do but his joy reaches its maximum if the dead thing is wet and maggot-ridden).
Parker loves being off-leash, so he was a good 15 yards ahead of me, and in between my sniffles and nose-blowing as I felt my difficult feelings, tears coming as necessary, I holler to him, if he looks about to roll,
“no poop rolling in”,
“no dead-thing rolling in”.
He narrowly misses the chance for a joyous roll just before we reach a fork in the trail. I manage to holler at him just in time. He looks back at me, woefully disappointed, and now I am annoyed. As if my feelings aren’t big and sad and snotty enough, here I also have to stop my dog from rolling in God-knows-what!
So I am muttering under my breath at Parker, as I take this fork in the trail, which is covered in rustling maple leaves bright oranges, yellows and reds mixed in the with brown. Being angry at him is safe (he won’t fight back), as is kicking viciously at leaves, so I kick at the leaves to release some of my anger and big feelings. And as I kick, something silver winks in the leaves. I kick again.
It is a small silver-backed round card holding about 6 hearing-aid batteries. Only one battery is missing.
"Hunh” I think to myself “someone is going to come looking for these batteries.”
So I pick it up, and hang it on a nearby tree, as trail walkers are wont to do with lost and found things - you know: gloves and mittens, sunglasses and ball caps, the things we find on trails. The card still had the hole from which it had hung in whatever store it had been bought from. From that same hole, I hung the batteries up, mentally editting Isaiah 55:1,
“come you who are hungry
or thirsty
or hard of hearing,
batteries you can buy
without money”. Hanging the free merchandise of grace on the tree, Parkie and I continue on our way.
Finding the batteries and hanging them up somehow made me feel better. Maybe it was the thought of doing a random good deed. Maybe it was the lost-and-found pleasure of finding something, sea-glass of the forest trail if you will, that would help the loser be less of a loser (and more of a hearer) when they returned to the trail in search of that which they had lost. (oh my, so much sermon fodder here!)
It felt like a good omen, to find fresh hearing aid batteries. A sign that, even if I could not see the next step, maybe I might hear some directions from God, the trees, the wind or the birdsong as I walked. With that in mind, we continued. We did a solid hike that day. We clambered from that side-trail, up the escarpment, saw some beautiful views of the Georgian Bay (Parkie was on leash for the fall-risk vistas), and took another side-trail down to make a loop heading back to the car.
By the time we turned away from the escarpment, my internal world had, indeed, settled down. Rather than thinking of jumping of bridges, now I was thinking about the supper I left in the crockpot, how good it would smell, how my muscles were reminding me of the joy of motion and simply being able to hike.
We had passed the 4-mile mark, which is usually when Parker also needs less hollering at. He was off-leash again, and happily sniffing now maybe 15 feet ahead of me, perhaps thinking too of his supper, or imagining roll-worthy poops and dead things, pursuit-worthy critters that got away?
Suddenly, someone else is on the trail, right where the fork is, to the segment where I found the hearing-aid batteries after kicking angrily at leaves.
Parker believes firmly that one of his jobs, indeed his vocation and calling in life, is to greet, with glee and joy, any two-leggeds we meet on the trail (or anywhere else for that matter). A dog on a mission, he picks up his pace running towards the man on the trail, beagle ears a-flopping.
I rush to call him back and put him on his leash, calling out my apology to the stranger on the trail: an older gentleman, wearing crocs on his feet with what look like good wool socks, and carrying a red Solo cup. The cup stands out in the wooded area, in the hands of a senior citizen, an anachronism seeming more suited to a fraternity kegger, or a neighbourhood backyard barbecue.
In response to my called out apology I get a querulous look and a
“What?” spoken at a louder-than-seems-necessary volume.
As I leash Parker, I take a few more steps towards the man and speak more loudly,
“I’m so sorry for my dog rushing you.” I say, loudly.
“Oh thats ok.” He says, with a smile, again speaking louder than seems necessary, and as we close the gap between us a little more, I notice his hearing aids, hanging on his ears with the hearing parts noticeably pulled out of his ear canals, like side-mounted antennae, seeking some elusive radio signal or perhaps a message from God?
“Beautiful day for a walk isn’t it?”
“What?” he says (louder-than-necessary volume). And here, I boldly take the leap of deductive reasoning, hoping I don’t offend him.
“Did you, by any chance, lose a card of hearing aid batteries?” I ask.
“What?” he says (louder-than-necessary volume).
You can see where this is heading right?
I repeat, with considerably more volume. And he confirms, with equal volume, that yes, indeed, he did lose some batteries.
“Did you see them?” He more or less hollers, his eyes hopeful.
“I found them. They’re on that side of the trail” I point with my head, “hanging on a tree.”
“What?” he says (louder-than-necessary volume).
I take a few steps closer, now really curious. Where did this man appear from? We are not near a house I can see. He couldn’t have been on an epic hike, wearing only crocs on what is a colder-than-Crocs-and-socks fall day.
After a few more loud-volume exchanges, I offer to walk up the trail with him to help him find the card of batteries. Its fairly pointless making small-talk as, dagnabbit, I forgot to bring my megaphone with me.
Glinting in the late afternoon sun, as promised, is the card of batteries hanging on the tree. I pluck it off the tree, like a ripe fruit. As I turn to hand it to him, he draws closer to reach it. I smell the alcohol in the red Solo cup, which he holds up in a kind of toast to the prodigal hearing aid batteries. Thanks be to God.
I confirm he isn’t too far from home, and, wishing each other well, we proceed in opposite directions.
The visuals of that day held such energy:
The “oh, mom, you spoil all the fun” look Parkie gave me when I hollered at him “no poop rolling” for the umpteenth time.
The glint of silver amongst rustling fallen leaves, being angrily kicked up.
The always-encouraging vistas of escarpment and Georgian Bay: medicine for the soul, administered through the eyes.
The crocs-and-socks feet, the ears with hearing aid wires sticking out.
The bright solo cup with the smell of alcohol, a reassurance that home (the source of warmth and strong drink) wasn’t far away.
Each visual, each piece, like a small bite of a much bigger elephant of a lesson:
To everything there is a season,
a timing to each encounter,
which we may encounter,
if we:
make time,
take time
and PAY ATTENTION. 
That was day one of my intentional-pay-attention time. The combination of battery-finding, then guiding the man back to his batteries, so he could hear again, seemed more than serendipitous.
What coincidence of timing made Parkie’s poop-rolling-attempt (leading to), my leaf kicking and sighting of the card of batteries possible?
What coincidence of timing made the older gentleman’s search coincide with our return?
What lesson was being offered: to trust that time and space are so organized as to deliver that which is needed in due time, in due season?
I’ve taken from that lesson, the value of paying attention, no matter what my emotional mood may be, paying attention to what may glint in the kicked up leaves of my consciousness. Whether in dreams, in conversations, words on pages, or those internal nudges that say: reach out to so-and-so, call or send a note, pray or pause, or simply BREATHE.
I’ve taken from that lesson, the value of hanging up in a visible place the things I might find that may help others: hear, see or understand even a little bit better.
I’ve taken from that lesson that, once I pay attention, and hang up in a visible place that which grabs my attention, I can leave the work of connection to the cosmos, to God, to the various ways we have, whether man-made or natural/coincidental, to find that which is needed - all in good time.
Jumping off Bridge - Photo by Jonathan Cooper on Unsplash
Red Elephant - Photo by Alberico Iusso on Unsplash
Life is about the subtleties and nuances. It's important to leave your senses wide open.