Mom’s small pickup pulled over on a wide spot along the dirt road. It had been at least an hour’s drive on its washboard surface. My teenage attitude was as rough as the road we’d just traveled.
Mom grabbed her backpack, and she handed me one to hold my lunch and sweatshirt. We waited for her friends to show up.
This was another of Mom’s attempts to introduce me to new friends in her new hometown. We were going to hike with people I didn’t know to a place I’d never seen. I felt grumpy already.
Not one, but three cars pulled in behind ours, and my instant impression of mom’s friends were that they had stepped out of the 60’s. Think flower power, flowing shirts for the women and long hair for the guys. They were all laughing and hugging. This was awkward.
Mom made a dozen introductions, and the names were quickly forgotten. Our rag tag hiking group headed off into the woods. I imagined we’d be quiet along the trail. I was wrong. Songs and jokes filled the air.
Eventually, we got into smaller groups, and I was hiking with Molly. She said she was 25, but didn’t look ten years older than I was.
Her questions about my life were met with mostly two-or three-word responses. If Molly detected my ambivalence to connect it didn’t deter her efforts.
Molly swung her arm outward, “Sometimes we just have to look deeper to see the hidden beauty.”
I didn’t respond.
She stopped and pointed upwards to a dead tree where I hadn’t noticed an intricate nest made in a hollowed-out hole in the trunk.
Again and again, Molly pointed out things I wasn’t seeing, because I wasn’t caring to look.
Eventually my icy heart melted, and I began to look deeper as I hiked.
A few months later, I saw Molly again. She wrapped me in a big hug like she gave all her other friends. It felt nice to be included. It was my last time seeing her—in her nomadic ways, she was leaving soon on a new path.
But I’ve never forgotten to look deeper as I journey. I would have missed so many things along the way.
Maybe Mom had been teaching me something without being the teacher.