I have been lucky enough to spend three months on a boat motoring thru the waterways of the Inside Passage from Anacortes, Washington to Glacier Bay, Alaska. Being so immersed in the grandeur and beauty of nature changed me in ways that are hard to describe as if I returned to an expansive place within myself I’ve always known but had forgotten. There was definitely a spiritual quality about the voyage. The wild landscape of Alaska opened my heart to an untamed splendor that refused to be held by anything other than my soul. Three years ago I had a similar experience when I walked the Camino de Santiago from Portugal to Spain and when a friend asked me to sum up my trek in one word, Gratitude was my immediate response. The word that resonated from my boat experience was Forgiveness and that kind of took me by surprise since it was not something I had on my radar. About mid-way through our journey my husband and I were nestled in our deck chairs at the stern of our boat with fleece blankets wrapped around us to keep us warm. Our evening outdoor sessions had become a ritual I relished as we sat quietly together content to do nothing other than take in the primitive surroundings. This particular inlet on the east side of Baranof Island was secluded and we happened to be the only boat anchored in a place that looked more like an alpine lake than a ocean cove. Towering gray granite walls surrounded us covered with dark green pine trees and leafy vegetation. A cool breeze brushed our cheeks as we listened to the sounds of a hidden stream trickling over a rocky pathway into the still pool of water below. The singsong cry of an eagle could be heard in the distance and an occasional splash of a jumping fish. A deep contentment settled over me, as if every cell of my body was relaxed and at home.

I also noticed a compelling desire to share this experience with others yet when my husband mentioned the name of one particular couple I felt an immediate constriction in my gut. The feeling seemed completely out of sync with the spacious place I had been living for the last eight weeks. And yet, there it was, the part of myself that can be small-minded, insecure and sometimes petty. Now, it no longer felt comfortable. Alaska seemed to be whispering in my ear that life if too grand and wondrous to harbor a grudge and like a snake needing to shed an old and dried up layer of skin, my grievances felt too confining. Then an image came to mind of the water beneath me being a deep pool of forgiveness that embraced me while gently coaxing me to release all my hurt, anger and disappointment into her watery depth. It seemed so simple in that moment to just let go. The next morning I kayaked to a huge waterfall about a half-mile away. Drawing close to the cascading water I could feel the mist cling to my face and hair. When I looked closely at the water tumbling over the rocks I could see countless patterns and smaller waterfalls contained within the larger one. A powerful “yes” welled up within me and I said the word out loud three times, “yes, yes, yes.” I didn’t even know what I was saying yes to but it felt like I was consenting to a new way of being, or maybe just saying yes to the radiance surrounding me and to forgiveness. It was like a shell around my heart was being pulled away leaving it undefended and vulnerable but also spacious and free. I don’t think an undefended heart is possible without healthy boundaries and an awareness of a divine love protecting it, yet forgiveness demanded I let go of my defenses and the old narratives I clutched onto like a tattered and familiar stuffed toy. A line from a poem by Christine Valters Paintner captures my experience beautifully.

I want to forgive a thousand tiny and tremendous transgression because now all that matters is how small I feel under the sky, even the sparrow hawk takes no notice of me, how enlarged I feel by knowing this smallness.

Later, my husband asked me, “Do you think this view has changed much in the last 1000 years?” I thought of all those who had come before us; the explorers like John Muir, the hardy fishermen, the native Tlingit tribes, the whales, otters, bears and salmon – “probably not,” I answered. It is a strange thing to think I could come and go from this earth without leaving a mark, that the view will remain unchanged in a hundred years long after I am gone. But there is also freedom in knowing how small I feel under the sky and how enlarged I feel by knowing this smallness. It is from this broader perspective that I am able to see the harmony in things that appear contradictory; the wonder and harshness found in nature, the light and the shadow within my self and others, the generosity and horrors played out on the world stage. Somehow it all gets woven into a larger tapestry that is fuller and richer because of its imperfection and is quite stunning. I still struggle with being disappointed or resentful when people don’t behave the way I’d like, including myself, or when scircumstances don’t work out the way I planned, but when I think of Alaska something within me loosens and I no longer feel the need to demand life abide by my rules. A space begins to open in my spirit that allows me to accept life on life’s terms and that is what forgiveness is really about.

“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” ~Frank Herbert

I could sense my time on the water was drawing to a close long before the boat turned around and headed south. The first sign was reading the final sentence of a thousand-page novel that had kept me company many evenings. Then there was the last episode of the DVD series my husband and I had been watching. Even the can goods were beginning to look sparse and the last of the frozen chicken, wine and soda had been consumed. All our extra stock could now be stowed in one cabinet versus being stashed into hidden compartments under the stairs, berths, and bench seats throughout the boat. It’s curious how the inkling of an ending begins with just one small event that grows until there is no denying the reality of what’s ahead. The final shift for me happened when the boat physically changed direction and headed south cruising along coastline we had already passed by.

I noticed my thoughts began to turn as well, shifting from a wide-eyed wonder and sense of exploration to a focus on the practical details of unloading gear, driving 1,400 miles back to Boulder and checking in with friends, family and clients. I felt like I’d been living in a parallel universe for the past two months due to the lack of cell reception, wifi, or TV that rendered communication with my life in Boulder limited at best. I truly was living in a bubble, so-to-speak, and I found myself reluctant to leave this magical cocoon. Life was uncomplicated on the boat. Billy Proctor, the eighty-year-old man who has lived most of his life in a small wood-frame home near Echo Bay in the Broughton Islands, was once asked if he ever got bored in this remote landscape. He responded by saying he didn’t know the meaning of the word, “there is too much to see and explore,” and I knew exactly what he meant.

I suppose exiting an adventure needs as much care and attention as preparing for it, gathering up the experiences, holding them one last time, before placing them into memory – savoring the high lights, near-misses, and even the cabin fever felt after four days of rain. Taking the cargo off the boat became a ritual of saying good-bye. Hauling crab pots and fishing gear from the fly bridge I was reminded of the prawns and rockfish that were deliciously fresh to eat. Swabbing the decks brought back memories of the deep stillness that permeated the air at dusk and watching a colony of sea otters swim past the stern of our boat then duck into a rock crevice. Washing the windows I could still imagine the massive fjords that loomed above us. Finally, as I laundered and folded the linens, I stacked my memories along with the towels, carefully placing them where they could be retrieved if ever I needed to visit the sea once again.

“Faith is the complete reliance on the power and goodness of Spirit and the firm belief that you are always connected to this goodness.” Wayne Dyer

I am a visual learner, which means I process information through my sense of sight. Show me a map directing me to a location and I’ll get there nine times out of ten. Give me the same information verbally and I’ll be hopelessly lost. So when fog sets in while boating among the islands, archipelagos, and straights in British Columbia and Alaska, I am somewhat out of my element. It’s an eerie feeling to see a boat, rock, or shoreline glowing red on the radar screen while misty clouds hang thick and opaque outside the pilothouse window obscuring my view. Once we motored side-by-side with a 40-foot Nordic tugboat less than fifty yards away while chatting on the radio yet never saw one another with our naked eye. My intuitive sense of where we were located in space was useless and I had to trust the instruments were accurate as I kept a watchful eye on the navigation screens. With fog there can be no visual confirmation of where I am in comparison with the charts. It’s a bit like driving in a blizzard, only able to see a few feet ahead. I noticed my shoulders tensed slightly as I became more alert and vigilant in the unsettling conditions.

Learning to trust something other than my go-to ways of navigating is challenging, and not just in boating, pushing me beyond my comfort zone. When it comes to weather, I have no choice in the matter other than to adjust to the conditions. I like knowing what is in front of me, so when I can’t see I feel out of control, vulnerable and a bit exposed. What’s interesting though is that even when I can see it doesn’t really mean I’m in control, it just feels like I am. The fog reminds me of this reality and forces me to trust and be guided by something other than myself, in this case the instruments. It is a lot like life in general. When encountering a foggy patch and I am confused about the right next move, what choice to make, or where I’m headed I can isolate trying to figure out a solution on my own as a way to protect myself and keep my pride in tact, or I can humbly choose to admit my limitations and receive assistance and guidance from God, a mentor, or a wise friend who can help me see more clearly. It means being willing to be vulnerable which is scary but it usually pays off. What keeps me in the fog is my illusion of complete self-reliance, a crazy belief that I should always know the right thing to do. So when fog rolls around, as it surely will from time-to-time, I can relax and trust that guidance is always available to me if I’m willing to ask.