purpose

The Privilege of Sharing Abundance

/ Greta Matos / 3 Comments

The sweet scent of the summer meadow grass tickled my nose as the evening twilight settled across the field. The children gathered all around me as I told them stories of our close encounters with bears and hedgehogs. They giggled with glee as I described the adventures of Houdini, my most mischievous hedgehog, and her tendency to roll into a spiky ball and throw herself down the steep flights of stairs- simply for the sake of adventuring into the unknown. My, what life lessons that brave little hedgehog had for us all.

Lila played with a simple braided bracelet I wore on my wrist, telling me she liked all of the colors.

“You know,” I said, “this is a very special bracelet; it was given to me by my friends who are on a grand adventure. They are two women who are walking 20,000 miles across the Americas. They’ve been on the trail for two years and expect it will take them five years to walk from the southern tip of South America to the northern tip of North America!”

The children all stared at me with wide eyes and let out whispers of “wow” as they imagined these wild women who could embark on such a journey.

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I smiled and told them that I was very lucky because recently I had the opportunity to be a Trail Angel for these women. Again, eyes widened and faces lifted in interest and curiosity as a choir of questions spilled out into the cool evening air. The primary question of course being, “What’s a Trail Angel?!”

It was obvious that to the children, this sounded seriously magical; and in that moment, I realized just how magical it actually was.

I leaned in a little closer and did my best to paint a worthy picture of a Trail Angel across their imaginations. I described the way Trail Angels welcome travelers- be they hikers, pilgrims, neighbors, or even random strangers in need- into their home and offer them simple but wonderful things that travelers don’t always have when they’re on the trail or the road; things like freshly ground coffee, nice smelling shampoos and lotions, soft pillows and hot showers; home cooked meals and a warm fire on a cold, rainy day. These things seem small, but they are very meaningful.

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After many years of living on the road or on the trail, it always feels like a gift when I have a cozy home to offer to another.

Trail Angels give without any expectation of receiving money or things in return. We give because we know how simple pleasures can mean the world to someone when they’re in the midst of a long journey. And in some way, we are all on a journey at any point in our lives, so we’ve all been there.

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Living outside on the trail through cold and wet conditions have definitely made Ale and I particularly knowing of how wonderful a roof that doesn’t leak and a warm fire can be.

“It’s a very, very special gift to have the chance to be a Trail Angel,” I told the children.

Lila, who had been quietly sitting on my lap, looked up at me and asked in a voice just above a whisper if she could be a trail angel with me next time; the other children heard her and all chimed in, “yes me too, me too!! I want to be a Trail Angel too!!”

This moment felt special, it felt important, as though I had just extended a lifelong invitation for these children to trust one another. For them to be willing to participate in the journeys of others through simple acts of kindness. In some special way I had just shared with them a little secret of humankind, that it is a privilege to share simple abundance with one another, and that we all have an endless capacity to offer kindness to one another.

My heart just about burst with delight as I smiled broadly and squeezed them all in a big hug, promising that the next time I was lucky enough to be a Trail Angel, I would call on all of them to be Trail Angels too so they could bring their favorite gifts and offerings to the next weary traveler.

They cheered in delight. As should we all.

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Simple little delights that bring smiles and gratitude

I believe it’s in our nature to give to one another, and most people deeply appreciate opportunities to offer kindness without expectation. As soon as we tie an expectation to our giving, as soon as we draw conditions around our willingness to give, our entire world becomes smaller, and so do we. But when we give without expectation, when we are able to acknowledge what a gift it is to have something to give in the first place, that alone will fill us with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, love and compassion. The world in which we can give becomes larger; and so do we.

Personally, when I offer kindness without expectation, I find that I already have an endless well upon which to draw from. When we give from a place of abundance, we are continuously replenishing that abundance by expressing our gratitude for it in the purest form- setting it free again in the world.

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We all have a capacity to share what we feel we have an abundance of

Throughout my life I’ve experienced the powerful beauty of the kindness of strangers time and time again. As a young woman traveling solo around the world, I crossed paths with countless strangers who were always willing to help.

As a thru-hiker walking miles and miles everyday, carving my belongings down to the barest of essentials and opening myself up to a new sense of vulnerability, I was introduced to the true magic of Trail Angels who had sprouted up along the Appalachian Trail so that they could intentionally offer kindness to Thru-Hikers passing through.

Last year when Ale and I headed to Patagonia and spent four months traveling and riding our horses across the region, we were again continuously embraced by the kindness of most whose path we crossed, constantly being invited to share a warm fire, a warm meal or tea, and warmhearted stories and conversation.

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After riding for seven hours straight in freezing cold rain, we stopped at the last smoking chimney in sight to ask if there was a clearing ahead where we could camp. Alexi immediately welcomed us to spend the night in his home, fed our horses hay and even put them inside his barn so that they could dry out as well.

When Fidget and Neon, the two women walking across the Americas, headed through our tiny town in Southern Chile, it was only natural for us to receive them with open gates, open doors and open arms.

We are all, in some way, pilgrims on a journey as we live out our lives. Sometimes we’re traveling in a literal sense, but most of the time, most of us are simply traveling through the expanse of our individual lives. If we pay attention, and we leave the light on, we may be lucky enough to receive a fellow pilgrim and offer them a few simple gifts to make their journey a little more comfortable, their bellies a little more full, and their spirits lifted a little higher.

If we allow ourselves to perceive the beauty in the world, the beauty in one another, we will not only attract this beauty, but with a willing heart we can live the privilege it is to share the abundance of kindness that lives easily within each of us.

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If you’re interested in learning about and/or contributing to the journey of my friends Fidget and Neon, the wild women who are walking the length of the Americas, check out their blog and website at Her Odyssey.

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The Road Ahead

/ Greta Matos / Leave a comment

I think we reached the old road today. We won’t know until morning, but it looks as though we have.

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I’m so ready for a hot shower, to send the family a message that all is well, and to eat something, anything, everything- other than rice and potatoes and tuna.

There’s a chance we’ll get there tomorrow, the gauchos said it was an 8 hour ride from the start of the road, but we’ll just have to see. Everything has taken so much longer than they said it would.

I no longer speculate about where I’ll be when, it’s not worth the energy.

I’ll get where I’m going whenever I do. It’s as simple as that.

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The next morning the dawn light tickles my nose, and draws me from our broken tent. The frost has formed a heavy crust atop the rain fly and all of our gear, I pull on every last layer of clothing I have and quietly slip outside into the wild morning. Pink stripes splash across the mountainous horizon as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I check the horses, happily munching away on the abundant pasture, then I hike up to the suspected road.

We’ve followed the wrong path before, countless times before. That was what had taken us so long to do this traverse, the constant process of finding and losing, and finding our way again. Two steps forward, three steps back. It was like this dance with the unknown, where we were given just enough clues to keep moving forward, and yet never entirely confident we were going the right way.

If this was, in fact, the road, then somehow we’d made it across the wild mountains, somehow we’d managed to find our way along the unmarked trail that the pioneers had used so many years ago, somehow our persistence and relentless belief had brought us to the place where we’d intended to arrive.

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Where we’ve arrived, there is no more room for self-doubt. It is, quite simply, no longer an option. Self-doubt has been exposed entirely along this journey, its frivolous carelessness with my energy, its persistent exhaustion of my attention. I’ve cast it away, and in its absence I suddenly have found a deep, resounding earth-entrenched awareness of self-trust. Without a doubt, beyond any rhyme or reason, I believe entirely in the guidance of my gut, my heart, my soul, and in the destination that calls me onward. Even when I cannot entirely grasp that destination, I can feel it grasp me. And I’m overwhelmingly certain that I can manage all that unfolds before me as I continue finding my way toward it.

It’s not a frivolous trust or belief that I’m on the easy road, void of discomfort, where I will not encounter hardship. Quite the opposite- it’s a bold acknowledgement that hardship will embrace me, just as joy and beauty and laughter does, and through it I will be continuously confronted with the simple choice- do I trust, or do I fear. And as long as I remain aware that I have a choice- I can rise above my fear and continue onward.

68 kilometers and two days later we finally arrived in town. Our last evening before societal re-entry, we found a magic place to camp where the mountains jutted out from the horizon and the sound of the rushing river lulled us to sleep as our horses grazed in the evening. The road had been relentlessly hot and dusty and we were exhausted. We pitched a simple tarp, too tired to put up our broken tent, and fell asleep with our heads among the moss and meadow grass.

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Where is it that we begin to answer the calls of self-doubt? When is it that we begin listening to all the noise outside of us, rather than engage in conversation with our inner-selves? What would it look like for us to build communities, businesses, schools and governments that made space for this type of inner-dialogue? These are the questions that visit me now, as I realize how many moments self-doubt stole away from me, and I relish in the fierce strength this embodiment of self-trust brings on.

Somewhere along the way we’re told that there’s a magic formula out there for happiness and success, and if we just abide by the rules set forth by others, we can achieve “it all”. But I call bullshit. The universe has far too great a sense of humor to allow such restrictions of formulas. Self-doubt comes into play like a jester, playing tricks on us and making us feel foolish, but it is just a player among the crowd barraging us with their noise; it does not speak to us from our intuitive core.

We all have a stunning capacity for self-trust; and with the acknowledgement and commitment to this self-trust, we step into a way of living that is incredibly resilient.

It reminds me of something I realized while thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail- as my body became more conditioned from the great distances I walked each day, I could climb mountains with greater ease. That’s not to say the muscles in my legs didn’t burn, nor did it mean I could climb a steep mountain without breathing heavily. Even after 2000+ miles of walking, my muscles still burned on an inclined slope, yet my recovery time shortened significantly. The momentary discomfort of the climb never went away, but the length of time that discomfort lingered diminished over time. It was, after all, momentary- temporary, always ebbing and flowing- like everything in life. And I could always, always, continue onward.

I suppose what it all comes back to is settling into a state of wonder and curiosity about the road that lies ahead, even if it’s cloaked in uncertainty. As I take a moment to reflect back on this year, and all the years I’ve lived prior to it, I feel that I’ve been undergoing this vast conditioning to grow comfortable with the fact that I will get where I’m going, whenever I do. That no matter what comes my way, I will always have the choice to trust. And, by choosing to trust, I’m allowing myself to enjoy the hell out of the ride along the way.

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Sunset on the evening before we arrived in town. We’d been rationing our food for nearly three weeks and had been dancing all along the way with the uncertainty if we would ever get out of those mountains. In this photo, we knew exactly where we were, that we’d made it to where we had meant to arrive, and that we would have full bellies in the morning. Even with the destination clear, we relished in the beauty of the crazy view behind us.

So, what do you do?

/ Greta Matos / 2 Comments
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Me posing with Volcan Villarica after an invigorating climb on a crisp, beautiful July day.

“Oh you live in Chile? Wow, so, what do you do there?”

“Well, mostly I climb mountains and surf.” I say with a smile and a little laugh. I laugh because this response inevitably always draws a quizzical look and a flurry of follow up questions. I smile because this simple little statement is a true reflection of how I’ve been spending most of my time lately, which was my intention when I closed the last chapter and began writing this one.

By now when someone hears that I live in Chile, they typically first assume that I am here for my job. That is why I stopped telling people what I do for a living when they ask me what I do in Chile. I didn’t come here for my work, I came here for my life. Their next assumption is usually that we moved here for family- also not accurate since neither my husband or I have any family here. I get it, I’m in my thirties, most people don’t just up and move to a remote part of the world for reasons other than work and family, but I also kind of love the fact that we did.

I remember the pangs of fear that crept in when I initially decided to quit my job and move to Chile, fear about answering that question, “what do you do,” as so much of my identity had felt tied to my work. I remember thinking about how I should update my Linkedin profile, how I could validate my credibility as a capable and successful professional without the title that went with my role. Even with those questions and doubts causing concern, the greater concern for me was that I would spend the majority of my life in an office, in front of a computer screen, finding time to do the things that brought me the most joy only around the edges of my life, not within the focus. I didn’t only want to experience joy in the edges, I wanted it to be flowing constantly.

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Pre-surf yoga always helps me clear my mind and connect with my intention before heading into the waves.

It’s funny how we subscribe to society’s definition of success, and learn to build our goals and dreams about achieving it through that lens, rather than the lens of our own souls. It is a practice to refrain from pursuing success in this manner, it is a practice to go within, to listen, to understand what ignites joy within you, what makes that feeling of love and gratitude just overflow to the point of uncontrollable giggling and mile-wide smiles. I don’t think this is a struggle, but I do think it is a practice. But when we engage in this practice, oh wow. Wow what unbelievable beauty can unfold!

In the past month, I have hiked through the backcountry of the incredible and ancient snow-dusted araucaria forests of southern Chile, climbed to summits where I had 360 degree views of wild landscapes filled with volcanos, waterfalls, lakes and a huge variety of forests. I have explored the southern coast in search of clean surf breaks, perfect for a cold but sunny winter surf session. I have spent days meandering down dirt roads, deep into unknown territory with my favorite person on the planet, laughing and finding magic places that only we know about, where we can someday bring our loved ones to share. I have put skis on and skinned up a smoking volcano, overlooking massive jewel-toned lakes with craggy mountains on the horizon, then turned around and skied down, back home in time to make a fire, do laundry and cook up a feast. I have also put in a good bit of time working on some exciting consulting projects, logged the necessary hours on my computer, all the while feeling creatively energized. As much as I love the work that I do, I still relish in the fact that I can step out my back door and huff and puff my way up a mountain that will totally have me giggling with childlike glee when I reach the top. This is my bliss, and now that I have it within arm’s reach, I try to embrace it daily, on some level.

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With this as your backyard, it is hard to justify spending a day inside in front of a computer screen 😉

So, when someone asks me what I do, my gut reaction is no longer to tell them about my work. Although I love my work deeply, it no longer feels as though it is the most important part of my identity. Instead, I want to share what I actually do, what makes my heart sing, what invigorates me and reminds me that THIS is living, and I should be doing what makes me feel most alive as much as possible while I am able to.

How would you answer the question “what do you do,” if you were referring to how you spend the majority of your time? Does your answer excite you? Does it make you smile and laugh? If not, what would it take for you to pull joy from the edges of your life to the focus?

A Little Lesson Learned While Falling Down Mountains

/ Greta Matos / 7 Comments

Tears welled up as I felt the hard, slippery root slam into my hip.  As I looked up at the cloudy sky, I decided to lie still for a moment, take a deep breath and just let the rain fall on my face.  I was soaking wet and exhausted. Ale and I had been making our way through the Hundred-Mile Wilderness in Maine, we were nine days into our Thru-Hike of the Appalachian Trail and to say the least, it was kicking my ass.  Literally.  After days of constant rain, it felt as though the trees surrounding us rapidly growing around us, and with their growth their roots seemed to rise from the Earth and trip me at every turn.  At the beginning of our hike, I was actually counting the number of times I fell down, although when I think back on it now I have no idea what motivated me to do so.  When the number began to climb to embarrassing heights, I decided it might be better to just focus on getting back up rather than keeping count.

Although every muscle in my body ached during the ascents, it was the descents that really took me out.  I think I fell down more mountains than I hiked down those first few weeks.  Dirt covered my rain gear, my pack pulled me down heavily into the muddy trail, anchoring me and forcing me to learn the art of the “turtle roll” in order to actually be able to stand again (until you’ve mastered this, lying on your back with a heavy pack feels something like this).  At this particular moment as I stared up at the clouds and rain, I was contemplating the best direction for me to angle my turtle roll so that my heavy pack would not tumble me further down the steep pitch.

“Are you okay?” Ale yells up to me.  “Yes,” I half-heartedly grumble as I roll onto my chest and manage a push up-warrior pose, grabbing the nearest wet tree trunk to brace myself and survey the trail ahead.  My boots squish, feet soaked after too many rainy days and flooded trails.  I’ve learned that Gortex can only withstand so many drownings.  Raindrops form on the front of my hat and splash on my face, blurring my vision momentarily.  I readjust my hat, wipe away the water, tears and dirt from my eyes and choose my next step carefully.  The trail holds and I gain confidence, stepping with slightly more momentum and reaching forward with my walking stick. I manage to get four more steps in before I am again crashing down the trail on my backside.  “It’s not how many times you fall Greta,” I think to myself as I grit my teeth and prepare to roll again, “It’s how many times you get back up.”

It feels a bit cliche but I literally had to embrace the essence of this saying while hiking those steep, wet, black fly and mosquito ridden, root-covered mountains of Maine.  There was plenty of opportunities to dwell on the misery, to think only of the awful black fly that bit you until you bled; the constant swarm of mosquitos that never left your side; the strong slippery roots that sent you careening down the mountainside; the fast flowing, freezing rivers that had to be crossed; the incredibly uncomfortable first moments of putting on your cold wet socks, pants and shirt from the day before that had not dried in the night; the tired, sore muscles and blister-covered collar bones.  But there was also the stunning embrace of being in wild places everyday.  The beauty of it was that I awoke each day, despite the hardships of the day before, filled with gratitude to be in such a magic place.  The pristine wilderness that I was living in took my breath away (when it wasn’t knocking the air out of me).  The early mornings I awoke just before the moon retired…before the rain clouds would unleash the torrents of the day, when I would crawl from the tent and hike out to the rock slabs, sit with my journal and the dew-soaked spider webs and the songs of the morning birds, the soft mist blanketing the forest around me.  Every one of those little moments felt like an incredibly precious gift, and the struggles of the day seemed a small payment to make in order to relish in the experience of living this way.

Those months spent hiking the AT broke down my complex perspective of the world.  At the age of 24, I had worn myself down into a perception of the world that was overwhelmed by our endless thirst for consumerism, an unexpected understanding of the “reality” in which most of the products we bought were made and the environmental and social impact of that reality.  My perspective of the world involved countless airplanes, hotels and city streets with no rest in between, daily border crossings, encounters with masses of humans that I had never imagined as a child growing up in the woods and fields. It involved bribes and pollution, it involved poverty and construction, it involved gender discrimination and culture shock, it involved growing cities and shrinking wild places. The world I was living in was shaping my priorities, and before I had known it I was so caught up in the grind that I had lost my purpose and the intention of the path I was blazing with this precious thing called life. I had lost that flame of inspiration that is necessary to overcome moments where hopelessness threatens to take hold. Without realizing it I had fallen, and I didn’t know how to get back up.

The wilderness whittled away the priorities of my former life so that the most bare of essentials were all that mattered.  To be warm, to be dry, to have food, to have water.  To retreat into the essence of the love that I had for my partner who had chosen to walk beside me as we were both finding our way into the next chapter of our lives.  To get up every time I fell down, no matter what, because that was literally all I needed to do that day, and everyday, for 2,180 miles. I was constantly confronted with the choice between misery or perseverance, the choice of dwelling on the difficulties or celebrating the accomplishments, no matter how small they might be.

The day before I began my Thru-Hike, I recall stressing out about how I, as a young woman just beginning her career, could have an immediate positive impact in the world of business, how I would ever find the “right job” where I, despite my youth and gender, could influence change among broken systems and how the gap in my resume would be perceived when I finished the trail.  In the wilderness, I had to instead draw my focus to the grand accomplishment of managing to stand my 108 pound frame up beneath the 45+pound backpack that I was carrying (don’t worry, I quickly learned to prioritize gear and by the time I finished my thru-hike my pack was a mere 28 pounds with 6 pounds of water and 6 days of food). At the end of the day, the answers to all those other fear-induced questions really didn’t matter.  I was forced to focus on my present state of being, to let go of the weight of the unsolvable (seemingly) problems beyond my reach and instead manage only the weight that I could carry on my back.

I had to dig deep, I had to confront the fact that I was too hard on myself, I was literally keeping track of the number of times I fell down for goodness sake, and I had to learn to let go.  I had to learn how to simply acknowledge what I had immediate control over and put my energy into that.  What I could not control, I must accept and move through, and turn my eye toward the positive hues of the environment around me.

While I was digging, I also found that my perspective of the “real” world had become so overwhelming for me because I was focusing only on the falls.  I was focusing on the problems and the challenges so intently that I could not possibly see any solutions, or have any room for creativity. The first few times I fell on the trail and was confronted by the weight of my pack and the difficulty in getting back up, it took me a little while to find the right twist, the right maneuver to put myself upright again.  Eventually, I figured it out, and I became pretty damn smooth with my turtle roll moves (well, as smooth as you can be when literally using the same technique as a turtle to get up).  I still fell, but I got better at getting up, and as I did the falls weren’t nearly as discouraging, they weren’t nearly as overwhelming and my recovery was faster every time.

When I stepped off the trail I was ready to “get back up” when it came to my work.  I was able to see beyond the overwhelming expanse of problems that lie within the arena I was going to enter again, and instead I could focus on my fundamental strengths and hone in on opportunities to contribute the way I wanted.  I had learned the importance of letting myself trip, of taking a tumble but not forgetting to look around in the midst of it and feel gratitude for the place that the path was leading me.

Although the early years in my career had taken me down a path I had never expected, it was exactly the path that I was meant to walk.  And even though I felt as though I had failed in my ability to influence change in those early days, and I saw myself contributing to more problems than solutions, I would learn later how this experience would become the fundamental driver of one of my greatest passions, and would lead me to do work that I loved with an incredible company for many years.  When the industry had pushed me down I managed to find a way to get back up that inspired, rather than discouraged, and as a result I continue to believe in the endless possibilities we have before us to come up with creative solutions to the vast and complex problems we face in this day and age.  Should we only choose to get up and persevere.

How have you confronted the challenges in your life that threatened to discourage your perseverance?  What moments are you most proud of your recovery, of your ability to get back up even when you have fallen?  What drives and inspires you to continue on a path that might not be easy, but that you know with all your heart is right?

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A moment of absolute gratitude as I came down off this summit along the Appalachian Trail, miles of untouched wilderness before me and a momentary clearing of rain clouds. By now I had lost count of the number of times I had fallen down mountains, but I was getting more inspired to get back up with every tumble.