Springer's Journey

Tomorrow is my 65th birthday.

And to my surprise, I’m content.

Not “fireworks and confetti” happy. Not “look at my fabulous life” happy. Just quietly, deeply content.

I’m sitting alone in a tent on the Oregon coast, listening to the ocean breathe in and out while soft lantern light glows against the walls around me.

And honestly?

I’m amazed I can say that peacefully.

Today I spent time editing photographs I took in the woods. Nothing dramatic. Trees, light through branches, green growing things, white flowers. But while I was editing them, I realized something important:

I don’t want my forest photos to feel dark or threatening. I want them to feel inviting.

Like the woods are saying: “Come in. You’re safe here.”

One photograph in particular caught my attention — a tree with a curved trunk that looked almost like a bent leg stepping aside to let me pass. An invitation.

So I went. ☺️

That realization brought back something my dad used to say: “Lorrie, the woods will either accept you or reject you.”

When I was younger, I thought he meant the woods themselves. Now I think he was teaching me something about fear, awareness, and state of mind.

The woods can absolutely be terrifying.

Especially in the dark.

I grew up learning practical skills: I can shoot guns. I can light a fire. (Although I still require matches instead of rubbing two sticks together like some wilderness wizard.)

But as darkness falls and the shadows grow longer, a certain creature wakes up inside my head.

I used to tell women this at the beginning of the survival class I taught called “Dayhike Disasters.”

I would say:

“If there were an announcement over loudspeakers that there was a serial killer in THESE VERY WOODS…and I heard a noise…my unteachable mind would immediately think: BEAR!!

And honestly? I’d probably feel relieved when it turned out to be the serial killer.” 😂

The women always laughed.

But they also understood exactly what I meant.

Women move through wilderness differently.

We calculate differently.

We notice differently.

We carry vulnerability differently.

And fear behaves strangely in the woods.

That’s what I wanted to teach: not just how to survive physically — but how to keep your own mind from becoming the disaster.

The funny thing is…all these years later, I’m realizing that class prepared me for this journey too.

Because now I’m the woman alone in unfamiliar places.

The woman listening to strange noises.

The woman calming the creature in her head.

The woman reminding herself: “You already know how to do hard things.”

And maybe that’s what contentment really is.

Not the absence of fear.

Not the absence of grief.

Not certainty.

Just sitting quietly in your little corner of the world thinking:

“I made it here.”

Pictures to follow. 🌲✨

Today I met a rabbit because I’m finally walking slow enough, and quiet enough to notice.