“The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them. How much sorrow can I hold? That’s how much gratitude I can give. If I carry only grief, I’ll bend toward cynicism and despair. If I have only gratitude, I’ll become saccharine and won’t develop much compassion for other people’s suffering. Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft, which helps make compassion possible.”― Francis Ward Weller
Mary and I rolled out of the beds in our comfy cabin room at Beinglas Farm, stepped out onto the porch to stretch like we were in a cliche morning coffee commercial and sent out “poor you” looks across the pasture to the sopping wet campers packing up their soggy tents.
That’s one way to do this walk. But my thought bubble danced and sang: “Glad that’s not us!”
We have been blessed by nearly perfect weather thus far. But I (and I think Mary too) was secretly thrilled by the slight mist that launched today’s 12-mile walk. We are from watery Washington, which means we’re like gasping fish on the shore of a rainless week.
Along with the spray, we looked forward to the change in landscape the day and our guidebook promised, moving away from lake-side undulations into gentle glens and soaring mountainscapes.
We followed the River Falloch for a time, taken by its rushing beauty. We carried on in the direction of Crianlarich, the official mid-point of the West Highland Way. We made several more stops to collect garlicky ramps as we went along, chomping and talking. Eventually we ran into a field of tribbles – or at least the field that had to have been the inspiration for the classic Star Trek episode. We Identified The Larch around every other corner. It’s easy to imagine Monty Python trooping this road.
From there we marched uphill through a secluded woodland before winding our way down across the valley floor between magnificent towering hills.
But on today’s path we also experienced the other highlands. At the end of that romantic woodland stretch we found ourselves standing at the edge of a messy clearcut.
No wait. Messy is over-sanitizing the scene. Honestly, it was a tree decimation.
Mary and I were both teary as we walked past shattered trunks, uprooted trees, mud and rock. This is a national walking path, a historic gem. I would never advocate hiding a clear cut zone from the public by leaving a line of trees along the roadside as we regularly do in the U.S. But I just can’t understand why commercial logging is allowed in this region. The realization that much of the highlands we saw today and will see going forward are now mono-culture tree farms was a gut punch. The wondrous old growth that used to live and breathe in this majestic place will never return.
I love my dear land-oriented, nature-honoring friend. I love that she pulled out her flask mid-way through the carnage and said a blessing for all the trees lost here – those recently cut down and the ancient ones lost to logging long ago. I wouldn’t have thought to mark our grief and leave it there in this way, so as not to carry it forward and cloud the days ahead.
A beautiful dialogue rose up from those broken trunks.
I have always wondered about Mary’s ability – and her need – to recognize and call out the sadness she sees around her. For example, even as we stepped on this path, she gave voice to the fact that these 100 miles follow an old military road that was created by the British to facilitate the genocide of the Highland Clans.
We talked about the balance between sadness and happiness. I asked her how she found it, I pondered how I might. I needed to hear that my friend believes we can and must hold both simultaneously. I realized I’d been missing this frame, and I need it to help me balance stories I carry. She offered me a wonderful question that I offer to you:
“When is sadness oppressive and when is it demonstrative?”
So. Mary was the kindness I received today. Her way. Her wisdom. The happy accident is that we found each other lo those many years ago and recognized a deeper connection beneath the stresses of being colleagues in a difficult place.
Mary found her kindness when we arrived at the bed and breakfast in Tyndrum.
Our wonderful host welcomed us with lemon cake and tea and then gave us an extra room at no charge, allowing each of us to take some private time to ponder the day, our navels and the great breakfast coming tomorrow. This delightful home, Tigh na Fraoch, is known for those.
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