On Running In the Woods

I’ve always enjoyed the Laffy Taffy-esque riddle that goes:

“How far can you run into the woods?”

And its clever and philosophically inviting answer:

“Halfway. Because the other half you’re running out.”

Today marks 17 years since my brother gave his life serving in Iraq. At the time of its occurrence, I was 6 weeks past my 17th birthday, meaning that, avoiding the overly complicated math to get complete accuracy therein, I have lived as much of my life with my brother on this plane as I haven’t. And that equation will now get continually more lopsided with each passing year.

So, I ask myself how far I’ve run into the woods. I ask myself if I’m still running in…or if I’m running out.

It makes me reflect on where Steve may have thought the same, having left behind a beautiful wife and daughter when he made that sacrifice. I’ve reflected before on the rumors and ghosts of ideas that he was on his way out of the Army after his fatal deployment; maybe Steve thought that, at least in that patch of woods, he was already running out, even if he never made it to the next clearing. And yet, he ran hard, all the same.

It also makes me reflect on being 12+ years into an Air Force career, a stat which many outside observers call well past that pivotal “halfway” point. Those “in the know” are well aware of the truth of this matter, and know that it’s anything but. I’m not sure where the actual pivot point is, and I’m not even entirely confident there is one. Each year only gets harder. More responsibility, greater leadership expectations, the bitch that is time only makes the run constantly harder, if more rewarding. Putting this in perspective, I remind myself that this is roughly where I wanted to see myself the day Steve died, albeit with some details and plot events changed; regardless, I have to keep running, whether I’m closer to the edge of the woods or not.

In the 17 years since Steve died, I have accomplished just as much as I have failed, a fact for which I am grateful. For every goal achieved, it often feels like there are two opportunities that I never managed to kick down the door to, sometimes from happenstance, but more often consequence of my own actions. I remind myself that Steve was but 22 when he died. I’ve outlived him by a dozen years at this point, and while I feel behind him in the departments of family and domestic tranquility, I have to acknowledge that, regardless of whether I’m running in or out, I’ve run through woods he hadn’t, and will continue to from hereon out.

Thus, with my now-annual ritual of remembrance and catharsis through writing, I arrive at the question: What is there to be learned?

I think it’s important to reflect on not just how far you’ve come, but how fortunate you are to have gotten this far; others were not so lucky, even if “luck” is not a word you’d use to describe your current lot. I think it’s critical to remember not to weep for roads untraveled and paths left lone, but acknowledge that what could have been bears no true standing on where you’re at; more woods always lie ahead until they don’t. And, perhaps most poetically, I think when contemplating the metaphor of navigating the woods, it’s important to remember Robert Frost’s thoughts on the same:

We’ve all got miles to go before we sleep.

Miles before we go to sleep.

Remember Steve’s sacrifice, and the sacrifices of those like him.

And whether you’re running in or running out…

Keep fucking running.