Six: Escape!

Note: A version of this post will appear in the May issue of Njuspeipis, the student newspaper of Kauno Technologijos Universitetas (KTU).

I got lost in the woods the other day.

Or, more accurately, I lost myself in the woods the other day. But it was a good thing, a great thing. Looking back at the experience, I can see that losing myself was a necessary escape that I couldn’t do without.

I just lay on the couch

staring at the ceiling

—paralyzed and guilty.

You see, I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure lately. I’ve been feeling the pressure to do well in my classes, to commit to a career, to plan a future. On top of that, I’ve been thinking a lot about the decisions I’ve made in the last few years. Did I choose the right graduate program at my university? Should I even be in graduate school? Am I on the path toward what I want or just what I’m settling for?

These pressures had built up to the point where I felt like I couldn’t move, or that any move I made had to be the right move. But I was so overwhelmed that making any move at all seemed impossible. When I wasn’t in class or at work, I just lay on the couch staring at the ceiling—paralyzed and guilty.

Then, the other day, I forced myself to do something to break my paralysis. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I need to escape, and my favorite form of escape is aimless walking, wandering—just me and my footsteps. It’s not important that I know where I’m going; it’s only important that there is somewhere for me to go that is not the space I share with my anxiety.

So, I set out for a walk around Kaunas. With heavy footsteps I wandered down unfamiliar streets, up unfamiliar steps, along unfamiliar paths, and before long I found myself in a sprawling, forested park—Ąžuolynas. I hadn’t paid much attention to how I got there, so I wasn’t quite sure how to get back, but it didn’t matter. As soon as I looked around and saw what I was surrounded by—thousands of oaks awakening from their winter slumber, a forest floor splattered with patches of wildflowers, a flowing stream caressing the pebbles of its bed—all that mattered was that I was there and nowhere else.

I kicked and shuffled,

shuffled and skipped,

spun around in an awkward

dance, losing myself

in the surprising joy of it all.

I continued to wander. Every step that took me deeper into the forest took me further away from my anxiety. I soon wandered off the trails and into areas where I could see nothing but trees, hear nothing but birds, feel nothing but peace. The spring sun fell onto a forest floor covered in the crunchy detritus of winter. I began to kick the dead leaves into the air, walking—nearly skipping—through the broken brown confetti I’d created. I kicked and shuffled, shuffled and skipped, spun around in an awkward dance, losing myself in the surprising joy of it all, and then…

…I stepped into a leaf-hidden hole and fell flat on my face.

And I started to laugh. Out loud and at no one, for no one, but myself. I laughed at my clumsy fall. I laughed at how wonderful and silly I felt, out in the woods, playing like a child. I rolled onto my back and laughed as I threw handfuls of leaves into the air. I hadn’t thought of school or work or even life for several hours. I felt happy.

When I emerged from the woods, I was dirty and covered in pieces of leaves, yet I felt clean, unburdened. I found my way home on lighter, less rigid footsteps, and when I walked in my door, it was all still there: all the work, all the pressure, all the worry. But somehow it didn’t seem as daunting. It didn’t seem as important. Yes, I still had to address it, but after my walk, I felt like I had the energy and the will to address it. I felt like I could live with it rather than be paralyzed by it.

And all it took was for me to wander, to trip and let myself fall.

All it took was a brief escape.