Curse of the Seeker
Chasing the next dopamine source, or something more?
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Vision Quest
I was alone on a tiny, barren, peninsula. And the tide was coming in quickly.
The sun beat down, unseasonably hot for September. I sweated profusely from exertion. I’d hiked hard to get here. I took a swig of water from my bottle. Only a few precious gulps remained.
I found a small spot of shade behind a large boulder, surrendering to the idea of being stuck on this rock for several hours in the heat of the day.
Ahead of me was a large field of rocks jutting out into the water, rapidly being swallowed by the sea. They marked the way toward a long stretch of smooth, shady beach. Behind me were four miles of rugged terrain, climbing up and down over cliffs and windswept beaches, through thickly wooded areas, and across another field of boulders, impassable in high tide. There was no way I could make it back to the campsite in less than three hours. Certainly not before the tide swallowed much of the coastline.
Why hadn’t I brought more water? Or left earlier, to make it across in time?
What had started out as an impulsive “vision quest” type day hike was rapidly becoming scary. I wondered what would happen to me after several hours in the hot sun without drinking anything. I could easily stumble and twist an ankle on the jagged rocks. Worse, I could trip and fall between them.
Stepping into the Unknown
As I looked out over the rocks ahead, I was surprised to see a figure approaching. I watched intently as the stranger neared.
“Hello,” I greeted the person awkwardly.
“Hi,” they said curtly, seemingly in a hurry to move up the coast.
“Out of curiosity, how far away is that beach?” I indicated toward the long stretch of sand ahead, my destination. I ached to be there, but not at the risk of being swept away by the ocean, never to be seen again.
“Not far,” the person responded. “Maybe a third of a mile?”
“Do you think the rocks are still passable?”
“Yes, but not for long.” The person appraised me, their look suggesting they wanted no part in endorsing a potential suicide mission. “You’d better get a move on if you want to make it over before high tide.”
“Thanks,” I said, with new resolve. Rather than roasting myself on this barren outcropping, I decided to take my chances with the boulder field.
Traversing rugged black boulders over a roiling sea is both meditative and terrifying. The waves moved in my peripheral vision, encroaching on the slippery, dark rock. I abutted the coast, no path to follow, only the line of sight to the beach ahead. Sweat trickled down my back. Licking my lips in concentration, I could taste the salt and kelp in the air.
Step by painstaking step, the sandy oasis grew closer. Seagulls swooped to and fro around me, oblivious to my fear and exhaustion. As each new wave rippled toward me, I prayed silently it wouldn’t be the “big” one.
Small Miracles
By some marvel of grace I arrived, collapsing onto the sand. I sat, fixating my eyes on the endless blue horizon in front of me. To my right, I could make out the rocky projection where I’d nearly been marooned. In front of me, a huge, conifer-covered island jutted up dramatically from the sea – Father and Son, it was called.
The remote, windswept Olympic coast was one of the most beautiful places I’d seen, but also deadly. I’d passed more than one snake on this solo trek. Ropes led from beach to cliff, back down to beach. Fields of jagged rocks and loose, sun-bleached logs obstructed the path. I’d passed only two people during three hours of hiking.
When I arrived at the beach, things shifted. Suddenly, there were a few people, exploring from a nearby campground. A woman I’d never met before came up to me as I emerged from the rocks, offering me an entire bottle full of water. I gratefully accepted, dumbfounded by this chance meeting with what seemed like an angel.
A few minutes later I met a fellow explorer, sitting and conversing with her as the tide rushed in and slowly receded. By some stroke of luck, she introduced me to a group of hikers who planned to return to the same campsite where I was staying. They invited me to join their cadre. I’d be hiking back safe and well hydrated.
We made it to the camping beach, together. The sun had already set and the last light was fading from the sky. I’ve often wondered what would have happened had I not met the fellow travelers I’d come across that day.
At the time I couldn’t help thinking, the universe provides. But sometimes I wonder, because the universe certainly doesn’t always provide for those who need provisions. A more likely explanation – I was fortunate that day. And those generous souls were the ones who provided- courage water, and companionship.
Back at the beach with my friends, I reflected, why wasn’t I content with an eight-mile backpacking trip to a gorgeous remote beach with two good friends? Why did I feel I had to venture out on my own for an entire day, beyond all the others? In search of… what?
Yearning for Something
I’ve always pushed the limits, longing to connect with some bigger force both out there and within. This drive is both a blessing and a curse. It has taken the form of traveling, hiking, backpacking, biking, running, practicing yoga, art projects, questionable relationships, meditation, and more. A couple months ago I wrote here on Substack about an impulsive quest to locate an elusive waterfall. Nowadays I’m walking the equivalent of the Pacific Crest Trail. There are endless examples of times I’ve run off in search of something amazing.
Is the restless need to seek just another way to replenish dopamine, or is there something more here? Perhaps there’s a reason some of us are wired to look for deeper meaning?
My yearning to connect with the universe has made me the ideal cult recruit or partner for an aspiring narcissist. I’ve admittedly fallen victim to both. For a time, my yogic journey veered into cult-like territory. I married a likely narcissist, and as soon as that relationship ended, ran right out and found myself another one. I finally wizened up (for the most part). These days, I don’t look for answers in any partner, leader, or guru. Instead, I seek truth wherever it happens to show up. Communing with the universe via things like art, platonic connections, volunteering, and solo hikes in nature generally fills my cup.
On this journey through life, many of my close friends also happen to be hopeless idealists, seekers, and romantics. It’s like we’re magnetically drawn to one another. I think having an idealistic vision of a better world is something many of us artists, highly sensitive souls, and AD/AuDHDers, share in common.
Perhaps the burning desire to find greater truth and wisdom is sharpened by the spiritual deficiencies of modern life. More and more I seek depth, not breadth, in this quest. In a society and world that’s increasingly on fire and in crisis, with suffering growing by the day, I find myself losing my tolerance for small mindedness and mundane distractions. The never-ending ping of cell phones and technology grates at my nervous system.
I long for peace and quiet. For healing. But also, I seek profound connections. Meaning. Tools for wayfinding through the noise, steering directly to the heart of the matter.
Shattered, but Still Reflecting Light
When the universe was created, a big bang of matter and energy expanding outward, the metaphor I often envision is a giant mirror shattered into tiny fragments. We are the bits of glass, trying to piece ourselves back together to form an image of the divine. We strive to find the sacred in one another, despite our imperfections.
This motif of shattering and healing is seen in different theologies, from the Christian idea of humanity’s fallen, “shattered” state due to sin being repaired through redemption, to the Hebrew concept of “Tikkun olam”, or “repairing the world” through our actions. It also has to do with why breaking a mirror is associated with bad luck in many traditions.
I can’t help thinking of that line from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, “There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
Since college I’ve been drawn to the melancholic wisdom of Cohen’s lyrics and the haunting voice behind them. One of my favorite authors, Susan Cain, described in an interview about her book Bittersweet,
Leonard Cohen is like my all-time favorite musician…instead [of sadness] what I feel is a kind of sense of uplift, and a sense of wonder and awe that a musician could take pain and turn it into beauty.
Perhaps seeking is just the longing to take pain and transform it into something beautiful.
Here and Now
Four years ago we moved to the far-flung suburbs to get away from the relentless noise of the city. In the meantime, I’ve discovered that the suburbs aren’t really the place for me, either. Where do I fit? Not sure. Perhaps a ranch or farm? A hippy town? Alas, I’ve tried both of those.
As a good friend reminded me the other day, wherever you go, there you are. I’ve run a lot of places in this life, trying to find what I was seeking. I lived in 20 different dwelling places between the ages of 18 and 36, not counting couch surfing, study abroad, cross-country summer internships, and house-sitting gigs.
And yet, as I take an evening walk along the open space trails that depart from our house, something in me quiets. Under the vast southwestern sky, I’m hit with a sense of wonder. This wild place speaks to my heart.
I don’t know what’s to come. Living life these days feels like clinging to the fraying hem of hope. While the world out there is burning down, I continue parenting, doing my environmental day job, writing letters, showing up with signs that say cliche things like, “Freedom not Fascism” and “Immigrants Built America”. Fighting for principles that are beginning to feel quaint and naïve: democracy, equity, justice, empathy, clean air and water.
Through this daily grind, I long to return to this awe-filled space to process my heavy emotions. To keep striving toward… something. To believe that there’s still possibility, mystery, and harmony in this world. That my children’s generation has a fighting chance. That empathy and kindness can cut through the fear and chaos.
I acknowledge how privileged I am to have this place to walk and calm my nerves.
A fox scampers past in the warm summer dusk, vanishing into the swaths of greenish gold brush at the edge of my vision.
Despite the painful uncertainty and warped decadence of the empire crumbling out there somewhere, for a moment, this place feels like home.
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The world seems heavy these days for all of the stated reasons. Empaths can only carry so much on the daily. I think we look for a deeper meaning because this can't possibly be all there is? We feel like there needs to be more. More love, more connection, more peace. WE ARE the bringers of those things. The deeper meaning? We are Love. Thank you for sharing this. Love , Virg
My husband wonders at my impulse to get lost on purpose when I visit new places. I always find interesting things, and I always find my way again. ❤