He probably said it two dozen times.  Actually, I’m sure it was said more often than that.

Keep looking up.

The words one of my friends said to me, to the kids, to our friend circle, when times were dark and The Ending was beginning.

Keep looking up.

Sometimes I don’t even think I had a clue what he meant.  And sometimes I understood it perfectly.

Last week the kids and I and some dear friends went hiking in North Carolina.  (Oh it was a gorgeous spot.  One that has long been on my list of places to visit and will now be on my list of places to see each season.)  It’s called Black Balsam and it’ll make you sing all of The Sound of Music lyrics.

 

 

We were above the tree line and the trail was clearly defined – usually.  The trail was actually sort of a rut that was often several feet deep, narrow and frequently bordered on both sides by tall shrubs and bending grass.

The trail was easy to follow, but because of the many rocks and uneven ground, the highs and the lows, the dips and the bumps, you really had to keep an eye on where you stepped one foot in front of the other.

The views were in all directions and sweeping panoramic vistas greeted your every glance.  You felt on top of the world and the mountains were that endlessly charming hazy blue that look like the best known filter available to mankind has been applied to your very eyeballs, making all the views seem perfect and dreamy.

Except I kept watching my feet.

 

 

I kept looking down, step by step by step.  Here’s a rock.  Here’s a step up.  Here’s a step down.  Here’s a hole.  All I was noticing was the path directly under my Chacos.

 

 

When I would finally look up, when a butterfly caught my eye and I followed its flittery travels across the tops of the flowering fields, I would almost have to hold my breath, the view was so spectacular.  I couldn’t NOT talk about it and I couldn’t open my mouth in fear of destroying the quiet beauty.

 

 

Keep looking up.

What on earth was I doing staring at my own two feet?

I know those two size eight point five roustabouts plenty well.

Why wasn’t I staring at what I hadn’t seen enough of yet?

Why wasn’t I looking up?

 

 

I was all caught up in staying on the path.  Not tripping.  Getting from Place A to Place B.  Making it across the mountain.  Following the trail.  Moving along quickly.

Not that I wanted to fall or get lost or stand still forever.

But I think mostly my feet could stay on the well-defined trail without my constant checking up on them.

I was missing out.  For the love.  Missing out on the bold white cloud that was shaped like a llama in a full sprint.  Missing out on the mountains stacked up in layers on the other mountains, looking every bit like a doctored photograph, too perfect to be real.  Missing out on the myriad of black butterflies – like the one that landed right on my son’s hand, much to his delight.  Missing out on the feeling of being on some sort of other planet, or a movie set, or some sort of magical bit of fairy land.

Keep looking up.

I sort of said something about my feet and the trail and looking down and missing out and looking up to my friend Sarah and she laughed.  “That’ll make the blog for sure.  That’s just begging to be written.”

 

 

And it was.  It is.  Just begging to be written.  Just begging to be remembered.

Too obvious to miss.

Except I kept missing it anyway.

I keep missing it anyway.

Not just on the trail, of course.   Not just at Black Balsam.

But here.  Today.  In my house and in my life.

Keep looking up.

 

 

 

____________________________________

 

 

 

SaveSave