Taking the Long Way Around: A Mother's Journey into Wilderness Therapy and Beyond

M id-February and every surface is covered in layers of snow and ice. Stillness.  Even the brook is silent. The only sounds are of wind blowing through trees bare of leaves.  On a sunny day I might hear a steady drip of snow melting off the roof.  I hunker by the wood stove, awed that my child is out in this weather all day every day. The task at hand, to which I am not looking forward, is preparing for the upcoming parent workshop by writing a “transparency” letter to my daughter.  In this letter I’m supposed to tell her how I feel about many aspects of my life—not only what concerns us a family—but what matters to me as an individual, past and present.  The parent therapist has given directions, encouragement, and two aids: a template letter written by a previous parent and a “feelings wheel.”  The template letter is searingly blunt; the contents radiate so much raw emotion that I can hardly bear to read to the end. There’s no fancy stuf...

Our daughter has been in wilderness therapy for more than three weeks and as the immediate relief wears off, there’s an increasingly loud absence. When I walk my dogs I’ve learned that what I notice tends to reflect where I am (or am not and wish I was) or where I need to go.  Around this time I began noticing burrow entrances.  Some were no more than tiny holes beside the path, others, like the one pictured above, were elaborately crafted and inviting, worthy of the Hundred Acre Wood or Mole’s delightful home in The Wind in the Willows. If my psychic space is a house, envision me after those first few weeks standing on the threshold realizing that I’m afraid to go in.  I’m not as ready to be alone as I thought I was.  The space inside my mind is full, but almost every thought relates in some way (sometimes tortuously) to my daughter.  My own affairs have been relegated to a “we’ll see” limbo and, in some cases, squeezed out altogether....

The first communication we receive from our daughter, about a week and a half into her time at in wilderness therapy, is a scan of a handwritten letter that arrives in our email.  Although a copy, there is a sharp physical immediacy in seeing her handwriting which is, surprisingly, as moving and meaningful as the letter’s contents. During these first couple of weeks I am beginning to grasp the rationale of the wilderness way of doing — or, rather, un-doing.  Sure, I had read all the materials, but somehow this letter is the first piece of hard evidence of what a tough process our daughter has undertaken.  Although only a mountain separates us, this is her only way to communicate and she seems very far away. For this generation writing letters by hand is an unfamiliar and awkward way to communicate.  While using pencil and paper has little of the challenge and hardships of the outdoor skills they are learning in wilderness therapy, writing by ha...