This past August, my husband and I were looking forward to a camping trip in California's Sierra Nevada Mountains. Whenever we took a break from work—or from some hefty family commitments we were helping out with at the time—we'd sit down together and go over our camping list. Two-man tent with rain flap—check. Sleeping bags and ground pads—check. Trusty hiking boots—check. Self-contained meals and drinking water—check. Occasionally, we discovered something we didn't have—Oops. Better go find a new camping stove. But for the most part, we thought we were pretty well prepared. Finally the day came, and we set off.

A few things still weighed heavily on my mind as we drove north on Highway 395 and on up through the Mojave Desert toward the Inyo National Forest. Like a lot of other people we knew, we'd faced an enormous number of changes in the last two years, and some of the moves we'd made, while clearly necessary, had felt unsetting to say the least. The funny thing was, I'd been very certain that each of these moves was right to make. It was only as an afterthought that I had my doubts. (You know what I mean—What if? What if?)

But during this camping trip, I was to "see" a lot more than pretty scenery. I was about to learn a practical lesson that I could move over to all those second-guesses and backward glances. I learned that there's always another campsite! And even when the next site has its drawbacks, it holds its own unique adventure. It offers its own exquisite views. If we're just willing to investigate the posibilities of what might lie ahead of us, and to move on when it looks right to do so, then we're always going to find something new and interesting—maybe even better—in each place.

It was almost dusk as we approached the June Lake area north of Mammoth, and since sites are at a premium during the summer, we knew that the first thing we had to do was find a campground that wasn't full. We chose the first one we saw on the map—Glass Creek Campground—and after a short drive down a dirt road, there we were. We parked the car and went through the usual deliberations. Plus factors included a nice, flat place for the tent, as well as a little creek that gurgled pleasantly nearby. Best of all, this particular campground was free. Minus factors included the fact that it was located in a dry area, so there would be no running water or flush toilets—let alone a place to take a shower. Besides that, we were tent-campers (tent-campers tend to be proud of themselves), and the only site available was right between two RVs. One of the RVs even had a generator going so the occupants could watch TV. Nevertheless, the site seemed quiet and secluded enough, so we set up camp.

The next morning, just before we set out to take a hike to Parker Lake in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, I looked around. What a good job we'd done in securing this place! How could we have found a campsite anywhere that would have been better than this? We stuck our food in the trunk of the car so as not to tempt the chipmunks and the bears, then zipped up our tent door and drove off for a day of hiking. We parked our car at the trail head, and headed up.

The rocky route of our ascent took us up along Parker Creek, through stands of lodgepole and Jeffrey pines and quaking aspen. Wildflowers such as purple aster, larkspur, and yarrow graced our path. I can only describe the sky as royal blue. At times, we stopped under the shade of an accommodating tree and turned around to take in the panoramic view, as well as to see how far we'd come. The ghostly mists of Mono Lake in the valley below glittered in the distance.

Finally, as our reward when we reached the top of the trail, we sat down on the banks of Parker Lake and cooled our feet in the icy water while we ate the peanut butter sandwiches and apples we'd brought along. The silence of the scene as we gazed at the glacier that fed this mountain lake was so great that we could hear the conversations of the few other hikers a long way down the shore.

As often happens during peaceful moments such as this, I just sat there and listened. I don't mean for the sounds that were falling on my ears—the other hikers' voices, the birdcalls, the music of the wind in the grass—though I heard those, and I loved them. I mean that I was listening for inspiration from the all-merciful divine Being—the same eternal good that inspired and guided the nomadic Paiute tribes who inhabited this beautiful area more than six centuries ago, long before white people gave the lakes and streams and valleys and mountains English names.

My husband and I both remarked, as we have on other such occasions, that in a place like this, the fast, hectic pace of Western civilization sometimes almost seems more like an imposition on progress than like progress itself. In any case, the message to me that day was to slow down. Why did I think I had to be the one to find all the answers to all the questions—not only to my own, but to those of the people I loved? If God really was good, and All, why couldn't I just be this mentally quiet all the time, and trust each one to hear the Divine directing, step by step?

That afternoon, as we were driving back to the campsite we'd found the night before, we noticed another campground near June Lake, and decided to drive around the loop and take a look. This campground had a section just for tents. And, looky here! These sites were grassy. Nice, tall bushes provided some privacy be tween one site and the next. Just as we were asking the camp host if there might be a vacancy—he told us apologetically that there was not—along came a man who said he was leaving his site early. He asked if we wanted it. We drove back to the other campground, quickly broke camp, and moved to the beautiful new site.

But that's not the end. Even though I felt certain that our quiet listening, and our flexibility, had provided us an even better place to camp, the next day we found yet another campsite that offered different benefits, and a whole new view. This one was right near the swimming beach, which had its own lovely "dinning area"—with picnic tables and trees. We put up our tent at our new site, and set our camp chairs under some shady, whispering pines.

Well, it's just a little story, maybe. But I'm carrying my camping lesson with me into the events awaiting me this fall. Listen for the possibilities. Follow through on the inspiration. Be grateful for good wherever you find it as you move on.

And don't look back with longing or regret to what you've left behind.

"Willingness to become as a little child and to leave the old for the new, renders thought receptive of the advanced idea. Gladness to leave the false landmarks and joy to see them disappear,—this disposition helpsto precipitate the ultimate harmony." (Science and Health, pp. 323-324)