This is a quote frequently (albeit incorrectly) attributed to late 19th-century environmentalist John Muir. After a factory accident left him temporarily blind in one eye, Muir became disillusioned by the Industrial Revolution and the ills of modern society. He fled urban blight for what he referred to as the “University of the Wilderness,” and eventually found solace in the picturesque mountains of northern California.
Once settled, he began to write prophetically about technological advancement at the expense of human flourishing. Among innumerable other things, his work influenced the establishment of the modern-day National Parks System and ultimately led to the founding of the Sierra Club in 1892, a global environmental movement that exists to this day.
“Into the woods I go” isn’t really a quote at all, but instead a hybrid and quippy mish-mash of Muir’s writings perfect for sharing on social media. In full disclosure (and lest I give the wrong impression), this is absolutely how I first stumbled across it. I knew vaguely about Muir, and if asked probably would have said that he had “something to do with nature?,” but could not have identified anything of real substance.
I did not know, for instance, that he is recognized as the “Father of the National Parks,” a legacy of which my family and I have been grateful beneficiaries. In recent years, our travels have taken us to explore Acadia (ME), Arches (UT), Denali (AK), Grand Canyon (AZ), the Great Smoky Mountains (TN), Katmai (AK), Kenai (AK), and Yellowstone (WY). Our excursions to these places have become treasured memories that I hope my kids carry with them across their lives.
The Wilderness Call
Since I stumbled across Muir’s words a few years ago, they have become increasingly resonant. Perhaps it is my life stage as a mom raising two adolescents with very busy lives and often chaotic schedules. It might be the constant hustle of running a small nonprofit organization and all that role entails. Or, maybe it’s the state of the world itself right now, which feels generally harried and altogether untethered. But, the temptation to flee “into the woods” (or anywhere, really, away from the busy-ness of everyday life), has come to feel urgent and necessary.
I took this sentiment to prayer and started to discern what the Holy Spirit might be suggesting. Together with my spiritual director, I came to the realization that I was fatigued. And, not in the “I really need a vacation!” kind of way, but enervated along the lines of “I need a full system unplug and reboot.”
This was (is) a really, really difficult thing to admit for a type-A overachiever. And yet, Muir’s words – into the woods I go, to lose my mind and find my soul – reverberated in my bones.
The Ache for Rest
Muir was in his late 20s when he fled his job and ran for the (literal) hills. Unlike the young Muir, I am middle-aged, married, with a job and two kids on the brink of college. I couldn’t very well abandon my life entirely – nor would I want to! – so instead, I did the more responsible thing and proposed a working sabbatical to the Goodfaith Board of Trustees. Earlier this year, they graciously and unanimously approved it.
It was one of our members, Nina Laubach, who reminded me that sabbatical has theological roots stemming back to the Old Testament. Sacred scripture points to “shemitah” – a common agricultural practice in which land was left fallow for extended periods of time to allow for rejuvenation and future growth. For our ancestors, these fallow seasons carried great risk: the lack of harvest inevitably led to loss of income and depleted food sources, triggering potential starvation and even death. And yet, it was necessary for the land to replenish itself and bear fruit in the long-term.
The Gift of Fallow Seasons
Our most esteemed Biblical leaders – Moses, Elijah, and even Jesus – all took moments away from public ministry to enter into periods of private discernment. For them, these sacred pauses served as acts of trust, humility, and recognition of God’s providence and fidelity. It is striking to me that even the prophets needed reminding that God was – and is – more than capable of taking care of things in our absence.
Let me tell you – this is not an easy thing for overachievers to admit, either. Quaker philosopher Parker Palmer defines this phenomenon as “functional atheism” – the conviction that if anything decent is going to happen in life, I am the one who needs to bring it to fruition.
I’m a pretty faithful person, but my colleagues would tell you that this defines me in a nutshell. If you need proof, just look at my personality profiles: I’m an Achiever in StrengthsFinder; a three on the Enneagram; a D on the DISC. I was raised by two flinty New Englanders and have always believed that the solution to most challenges – personal, professional, and otherwise – is elbow grease and hard work. I pride myself on focus, tenacity, and grit. I DO things. But, rest is not a skill that I’ve mastered.
I remember very distinctly applying for our first Lilly Endowment grant in 2018. As I fretted over the minutia – every margin, every comma, every citation – it was Maggie Smith who constantly reminded me: “This isn’t about us. The Spirit is moving in this work.” Right. Duh. That grant wasn’t about me at all. And this work – our greater mission at Goodfaith – isn’t mine alone to carry. Sometimes, what’s needed is a dose of humility delivered in the gentle words of a colleague and friend.
Later this week, I will begin my own version of shemitah by doing something very unlike me: stopping. No email or Zooms, no spreadsheets or Google Docs, no small decisions or big strategic shifts. Just … stopping.
Following John Muir’s footsteps, I will literally go “into the woods” of the Grand Tetons and Glacier National Park. I will ground myself in nature and marvel at the wonder of God’s creation.
For the first time since college, I will be unscheduled and unstructured. I will resist the always-present urge to check my email. I will relish in relaxed and quiet moments with my ordinarily over-programmed teenagers.
After many years of reciting it, I will actually embrace the wisdom of the Romero Prayer: “it helps, now and then, to step back to take the long view.” For these six months of sabbatical, I will leave the day-to-day operations of Goodfaith to God’s providence and the very capable hands of our incredible staff. I am eternally grateful to each of them for their willingness to step into new and expanded responsibilities in my absence.
Taking the Long View
I will take heart in knowing that this is, ultimately, a working sabbatical. (Because Lord knows, I could never commit to it without a tangible outcome at the finish line.) When we return from our summer family travels, I will be immersed in a big project on behalf of Goodfaith. At this point – and quite uncharacteristically – I only have loose ideas in place for what this project could or should look like. This is, of course, a source of lingering anxiety as I temporarily power down my laptop. But, by design, I am giving myself time for cognitive and spiritual rest before diving in with clear eyes and an open heart.
Muir fled into the wilderness a young man undone by the world, and emerged with a vision that has outlasted him by more than a century. I don’t know exactly what I’ll bring back from my sojourn in the woods. But I’m learning — slowly, stubbornly — that I don’t need to know yet.
And isn’t that really the point?
Come, Holy Spirit. I’ll get it right one of these days.
