#184: Pilgrim prep.
This time, no expectations, only boundaries.
Dear reader —
By the time you read this, I’ll have gone full Viking, walking four or six or sometimes eight hours a day with all my clothes (and books!) on my back through Norway. This will be my life for the next 21 days as I cover the distance from Lillehammer to Trondheim, on the second round of the pilgrimage I began almost exactly two years ago.
I’m not quite on trail yet, though I wish I was. There’s a special mix of boredom, restlessness, and anxiety that seems to descend upon me pre-trip. I think I checked my passport expiration date a dozen times before I boarded the transatlantic flight, as if maybe the first 11 times I just hadn’t read the numbers quite right. In an attempt to settle the pre-walk jitters, I looked back at the first pilgrim letter I published back in June of 2024. Turns out I was in an almost identical, irrational stress spiral then, which is comforting in its own way. I’m still anxious, but I’m no longer beating myself up about it.
That letter ended with words from my friend Paul, who happened to be on a pilgrimage of his own at the time: “Let’s go and get to know ourselves a little bit better.”
The first time I stepped onto the pilgrim path, my intention was to dredge up and release the last bits of grief over my husband’s death eight years before. In the days, weeks, and months after Mike’s heart attack, I had been in full-blown “save the kids” mode. Grief still regularly laid me out on the bathroom floor sobbing, or the couch where I watched Star Wars movies three at a time, and I never hid my tears or pain from Connor and Kendall. But I always assumed that I had shoved some parts of my bottomless grief away out of self- and child-preservation.
During the 28 days of that first pilgrimage, I cried about Mike… twice, which is about how much I cry about him in a regular month.
I ended up mostly reconnecting with an even earlier version of Sue: the quiet girl who loved to be absorbed in books, or to perch on a stool at the edge of the church potlucks and just observe. The learner, the observer, the clue collector.
The solitary walking took me to a part of myself I had totally forgotten existed. I could not have planned it. I could only be open to it.
So for this pilgrimage, I’ve decided not to seek anything.
I’ve learned over the last two years — hell, over the last ten — that having expectations often only serves to make you upset or disoriented when reality unfolds. Instead, I’ve discovered I want that reality: I want the details, the subtleties, the opportunities I can only catch when I’m fully present to what is, rather than trying to force what I want.
So this go-round, I’m not setting intentions. I’m setting boundaries around the trip, so whatever is supposed to happen can happen inside it.
I’ve cleared all my decks: paid my taxes, paid my bills, paid my visits to family and friends before my farewells. I’ve tied up loose ends at the treehouse, and got Kendall off and running on her internship. I’ve cleaned the house and crossed everything off the to-do list. Everyone knows: I won’t be opening my email or dealing with logistics on the trip. Don’t ask me for the Netflix log-in code. If shit goes down, call Uncle Richie.
These are the only things weighing on my mind now: sharing my location with my trip planner and freak out helper Ruben every day, then sending a screenshot to Richie, and finally posting a photo or two on Instagram as an ongoing photo diary (follow along!). Doing my laundry every three days or so, aka scrubbing my socks in the sink. Writing a letter to all of you here once a week. And though I’m not making plans, I know there will be days I will question my decision, and days I will question my sanity. Days I’m one with nature, and days I’m cursing rain or sneaky cows or incessant hills.
And, well… that’s it. The rest will unfold.
Two years ago I didn’t know what to expect. So I stuffed my rucksack full of expectations. They did the work of the blister cream and bandaids I brought but never needed: to give me a feeling of being prepared, being in control.
But this time around, the uncertainty doesn’t scare me. It gives me goosebumps. The good kind. As long as I can make it to Trondheim without my damn passport magically expiring, I’ll be fine.
To preparing just enough to be surprised,
P.S. I’ve made another video for the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. If you’re into books and/or videos, you can watch it right here:
Wishing you well on your way, pilgrim friend. And hey, should anything befall your passport, just mosey your way south a little, to the Nether Regions. I know a guy. He's a "printer". Of books, cheques, documents and... But seriously, you won't need him. I fully believe you're under the protection of good magic!
Grateful to know that you didn't hide your tears and general state of sorrow from your kids. I didn't either, because I wanted them to know that such grief is normal in such abnormal circumstances, and that they were allowed to express their grief as well. They mostly didn't, at least in my presence, but I wanted them to know how to, as you say, do grief, just like I wanted them to know how to talk to a mechanic or the guy at the body shop after they wrecked their car. Yet I've not read from anyone else that they let their grief show. Instead, they were "strong for their kids." Hmm.
I also love what you said about not having expectations. This was something I also learned in the aftermath of Adam's death. Don't make big plans; you never know what might happen. Plans and expectations aren't really the same, but the intention was the same. Certain of those around me, especially my mother, are constantly vexed by my supposedly laissez-faire attitude. But it has served me pretty well.
Wishing you a great trip.
Sheryl