Smile, It's Just Yoga

Earlier this week I found myself running down the stairs of my apartment building, barefooted and still in pajamas. I was frantically trying to find any building employee who might be able to stop the fire department from rushing to the building. Back in my unit, the alarms were screaming “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!” 

But don’t worry dear readers there was no fire, just a lot of haze -- the result of perhaps too much oil left cooking in a pan for too long, in wait of eggs which I forgot to ever put into said pan. The alarms eventually turned off on their own with the aid of a fan and fresh air. Crisis averted. 

As you can probably tell -- I’ve never been especially talented at cooking. But it’s something I’ve been working on this year (in baby steps). And progress has been significant – though to be fair it’s off of a low bar. I’m still limited to making mostly bland breakfasts and lunches. (Trust me when I say you don’t want to eat anything I prepare for dinner that involves more than heating it up). But I should be kind to myself. Afterall, I am the same person who, when asked by a friend a few years ago to cut up a tomato for some sandwiches, immaculately carved the tomato into 8 equal wedges as if it were an apple.

Learning new skills is hard, especially as an adult. And while I haven’t actually tried particularly hard to become a great chef this year– I have spent a lot of time learning more about yoga. And there, I feel like I have made more progress.

Especially coming out of my Baptiste Training in February, I felt absolutely lit up for anything yoga related. It was more than just how it made my body feel. For me, the physical movement (asana) was only one (and arguably the least transformative) part of the practice. What really shook me were the underlying philosophies, the meditation, and the inquiry work. At that moment in my life, when I felt equal parts victim and irredeemable idiot, it was exactly what I needed to begin my healing journey. Yoga helped me see that if I wanted to change my life, I couldn’t wait around for someone else to save me -- I had to do that work, let go of what I must, and be a yes for making hard changes. I never thought this work would be easy – but even knowing there was a path forward filled me with a sense of possibility and power I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.   

Since then, I’ve given yoga the serious attention I thought something that has life changing powers deserves. I’ve practiced my asana nearly every day whether I was at home, traveling to another city, or on a multi-week back-packing trip in the wilderness. I’ve mediated diligently. I’ve interrogated myself and my stories every night through my journal, my blog, and conversations with friends. I even added the word “yogi” to my byline on Instagram, to publicly identify the practice as central to my new identity. 

Committing to these routines has had powerful results in my life. Most profoundly, it gave me the courage to enter into this journey on my own terms – and once there experience it from a place of new physical vitality, emotional awareness, and interconnected with others. Even off the road, several key relationships in my life have been transformed thanks to the insights and actions coming from my yoga practice.  

Of course, it’s not like everything in my life is “solved”. As many of you that regularly read these blogs probably intuited, this fall has been equally full of profound discoveries and new connections, AS WELL as moments of intense pain and crippling fear too. I’m still dealing with broken relationships. I’m still trying to grapple the meaning of nearly dying (more than once) during my two months in Alaska. And perhaps more than anything, I’ve been weighed down by a growing unease about “what’s next?”   

All of which is a long way of saying, despite feeling empowered in new ways, I’ve also felt lost. And the last time I’d felt this lost, the thing that helped me more than anything was the community and intensity of completing a Baptiste weeklong seminar. So, several weeks ago, I decided last minute to return to the desert and complete another week of Baptiste training. 

I’m not ready yet to write about that second week I spent in Sedona. Too much happened. Too much shifted – almost entirely in life giving ways. No doubt, in the end it will all end up in my writings in one form another. 

But most concretely for the course of my journey, is what’s happened since that I want to share. Specifically, the day I returned home, the owner at UpYoga in South Minneapolis asked me to teach two classes, to realnon-yoga teacher people, at the studio. 

Initially I was fill with excitement and pride. But as the day got closer, I also felt increasingly nervous. I imagined what class would be like over and over, and I had trouble sleeping despite the intense outpouring of support from friends and family. 

On the actual day -- I had no idea what was ahead. In the hours leading up to it, I felt wave after wave of fear. Did I have anything to offer? Would everyone think I was a fraud? Would this all just prove again I’m not really good at anything of substance?

But the truth was – none of that mattered – at all. When I actually did the thing, and got into the studio and saw my students, all those fears about me disappeared. There was no space for my obsessive “me centered” concerns. There were people in front of me who I cared about – even the ones I’d only just met – and from the center of my being, I wanted to share with them this thing, yoga, that’s so changed my life. And so, I did that, in all my imperfectness, using the tools I’ve been learning the best I could. 

The classes hardly matched my mental models. And there are things I wish I could have said and done differently. But both days the sixty minutes flew by in the best possible way. It was humbling, empowering, and thrilling all at the same time. 

When I think back on them, there is one moment that sticks out most. As the students were holding “chair pose” the second class, I looked at the room, and saw many of their faces were grimaced, full of exertion and intensity. I get it. That’s been me. Experience and conventional wisdom taught me that nothing good comes from doing things without seriousness and maximum effort; but in that moment I also saw the absurdity of that belief too. Without thinking, the words, “Smile, it’s just yoga” came tumbling out of my mouth. I saw eyes around the room lighten up. Faces relaxed. Many people audibly laughed. And then, many people, without any suggestion from me, sank lower into the posture. Ease, and forgetting the seriousness of their exertion, gave them access to something new. 

I left the studio both days absolutely charged up – so thankful, connected, and eager to learn more so I can offer more in the future too. 

So, have I figured out “What’s next”?

In some ways yes! And while I don’t envision my entire future being defined just by teaching yoga, for the first time on this journey I’ve found something I know I want to bring with wherever I go next. And that’s most definitely worth smiling about.  

Consumed with Complaints

I didn’t like the guy. I didn’t like the look of him. I didn’t like the way he was talking to other people. I even didn’t like way he was sipping his coffee. 

I was sitting in a coffee shop in Springdale, Utah – outside the entrance to Zion National Park. It was raining. And not one of those cute rains that you’ll see couples holding hands in, swinging their arms, and lovingly looking into each other’s eyes while saying things like, “Oh how delightful,” or, “The world is so enchanted.” No, this was one of those rains where couples un-grip each other’s hands to shield their eyes as they squint while scurrying to the nearest cover. 

I was at doorstep of one of the most beautiful parks in America, and I was stuck inside, consumed with anger for Mr. Patagonia wearing, privilege drenched, climber, latte sipping, strategically placed but unopened journal, pen, and thick pretentious looking novel dude –  listening to him say things to the string of women and men that talked to him like: “Oh this book? Yah… It’s long isn’t it? I mean, I don’t read fiction very often, except for Booker Mann Prize winners.” Or: “It’s hard on rainy days when you live in a van -- even a nice one like mine -- but it’s part of the life style,” or “Me and Amanda, well really it was me, but Amanda came along, I guess, anyway, yes, I broke the record last year for the fastest climb ever of something indiscernible in six … no five …  or was it four hours?”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed up my stuff, went back to the hotel, curled up in bed, and put on a movie, even though it was 2pm on a weekday. Maybe some “me time” was the cure for this malaise.

Or maybe not. Watching the movie, I couldn’t rest. A thought kept nagging at me. Why had that guy bothered me so much? 

Earlier this year, I learned a new way for thinking about complaints. Rather than analyzing if they are true, I should try to think about what “goodies” they are giving me. The theory is that if it didn’t somehow feel good to complain, I’d be able to let it go. So, I asked myself, what were my complaints about the coffee shop guy getting me? 

That morning, even before I got to the shop, I was feeling a bit lost and wracked with doubt.“Where is this journey headed?”I wondered.“Is this still a good use of my time?” “Have I gotten everything out of this that I should?” “Am I still affirming my values or just running away from life now?” Seeing the coffee shop dude, and complaining about him, helped me avoid grappling with those questions. Instead, I was spending my energy finding points of comparison on how I was better than him. “I may be lost, but at least I’m not that guy!”

But on deeper level, I felt lonely. Yes, traveling alone has opened up so much for me as I’ve written about before. Yes, I love getting emails, texts, and calls from friends and family far away. Yes, I am learning to find sufficiency in myself. But I don’t aspire for just self-sufficiency in my life. I aspire to have a life grounded in confidence in my own worth, AND ALSO defined by lived connection with others. Life is undoubtedly richer when experienced within a loving community. The truth is, as much as I need to do it for myself right now, traveling and sleeping alone day after day can be very lonely.  

So, turning back to my coffee shop man, and seeing him (him of all people!) seemingly making connections so easily while I was feeling alone hurt. Demonizing him was helping me justify my own sense of isolation, and my decision not to be more proactive in combating it. “If that’s who I have to be to connect with others, I don’t want any part of it!” or “If that’s who these people are, I’m better off being alone!”

Once I’d identified why it was so pleasurable to complain about him, I tried to think about what that complaint was costing me.  

First, it was costing me my power. Specifically, it was costing me my power to choose the course of my afternoon and my life. As I mentioned, I’d identified several crucial fears about this journey. Getting answers to those questions will fundamentally change how I choose to spend the next months of my life. And yet, instead of grappling with them, I was letting myself get carried downstream in non-action and judgment of someone who should have had no control over my life.  

Second, it was making me feel physically ill. One of my insights about myself this winter was that when I think negative thoughts about other people, or when I compare myself to other’s success, the costs to me are both psychic and bodily. This time was no different. I realized that despite the rain I’d gone into the shop feeling happy, but I left feeling angry about the rain, physically exhausted, and my head throbbed. 

Third, it was preventing me from having the opportunity to fight my loneliness and potentially connect with anyone else at the coffee shop. I was so busy justifying why I was alone, that I didn’t see that I was playing a big part in that. After all, who is going to come and introduce themselves to the guy in corner judging everyone? Or, how likely am I to take initiative and introduce myself to a stranger who I am thinking negative thoughts about?

My mother used to tell me, “You can learn something from everyone.” I always thought that was one of those annoying mom-isms. But on this journey, again and again I’m learning how true it actually is. 

Here was a man who was on his own journey. Like me, he looked like he’d once been a yuppy but left that world (but not the uniform) behind. Like me, something about the west had deeply resonated with him, and he’d clearly spent months of his life exploring it. He had probably grappled with many of the same questions I was struggling with now. It’s very possible that I would have disagreed with all of his conclusions, but think how much I could have learned hearing him talk about how he made them. Moreover, think of the wealth of knowledge he must have had on places to see, people to meet, experiences to have in this part of the world.

For all I know God (or the Universe, or whatever your worldview is), may have actually put this man in my path. But instead of following the nudging of the universe, I separated myself from him, observed him like a scientific specimen, dissected his faults, and ensured that we never spoke. 

Despite that personal failure, the more I thought about it, the funnier I found the whole situation. For goodness sake, on a superficial level people might have mistaken me for him. I can imagine an exchange between two strangers that observed us both going something like this: “Oh honey, did you see the clean shaven, non-bohemian 30 something dude, wearing a Patagonia jacket, and boldly pronouncing to the world he wasn’t working so he could explore the west and climb mountains during the week…” “Which one, honey? The one in corner in the blue jacket or the one in the other corner in the green jacket?” 

The last step of analyzing complaints is to ask: Now that I know my real need, the need that made complaining so satisfying, can I let the complaint go? Can I take my power back, and take charge of fulfilling my needs directly?

I scrawled in my journal: “Stay with work. Don’t be a victim to loneliness. Take initiative. Don’t judge. Only connect!”

So, I thought, how can I change the course of today? What small act can I do now to take back my power?

A thought came to me immediately, find a yoga class, introduce yourself to some strangers. So, I opened up google and searched for a yoga class. As I scrolled through, my eyes did a double take, there was a studio forty minutes away that was affiliated with Baptiste Yoga (the type of yoga I got certified to teach in). I called the number listed. A woman answered and said there was a class in an hour. 

The studio was beautiful. Nestled into the back of a small mountain ridge, attached to the owner’s home, up an outside staircase, across a patio, and into a sun-drenched, high ceilinged, space for 12. Andrea, the owner, warmly welcomed me with a wave from atop her perch on the patio as I drove in. I was the first person there. But only a moment later, and to my shock, two women from my teaching training appeared!

And not just any two people. One of them, Ronda, had been one of the most impactful people for me in my training in February. We had completed an exercise together where we had to stand in silence and look into each other’s eyes for somewhere between 15 to 20 minutes. (I will spare you the details of why it was so impactful until a later post). But for now, let me just say, I had no idea she lived in Utah, and I never thought I’d see her again. 

Beyond the sheer joy I felt unexpectedly seeing Ronda and Tara again, I loved everything about my afternoon at the yoga studio. The practice was physically demanding, and was an affirmation of community. Andrea’s style of teaching made me feel so connected with everyone else there, despite the fact we were all finding different expressions of each posture. We breathed in unison. She asked us to share our feelings with the whole room at different points. And lest you think this was some exercise in forced positivity, it wasn’t. I was struck when one man at the beginning told everyone he didn’t want to be there, and that he was feeling “somber.” At other times, Andrea let the whole class know when someone had made a breakthrough, and everyone cheered for them. However, my favorite moment was near the end of class when Andrea read a provocative quote and asked everyone (one by one) what they thought it might mean. When she asked me I was upside down in shoulder stand. Given this, I had trouble getting my answer out. So she asked me to repeat myself, twice. Perhaps at another time I would have found this frustrating. But that moment, and in that state, it made me laugh.

By the end of class every face was glowing, even the man who’d come in feeling somber. And after class nearly everyone stayed outside on the patio to talk, laugh, and share their lives. Some people (like me) for over an hour.

The whole experience felt like such an affirmation of my insights from earlier in the day. “Stay with work. Don’t be a victim to loneliness. Take initiative. Don’t judge. Only connect!”

Yes, more of this in my own life, I thought.

As I drove the forty minutes back to my hotel I felt so full – full of energy, full of joy, full of community, and full of life. What a transformation from my drive back to the hotel earlier that day.

And I thought, I’m so thankful that I saw that man in the coffeeshop. Mom was right (even without talking to him) he sure did have a lot to teach me. 

~~~

Post script – if you are enjoying these posts, I’d love to hear what is resonating with you. Just send me a note or post a comment directly onto the website. And if you think someone else would enjoy them, please consider inviting them to read along as well. It’s been such a joy to share this journey with a growing community of old friends, new friends I’m meeting on the road, and strangers who have decided to follow-on too.

To Camp, or Not To Camp, That is the Question

“My new way of being is of openness, confidence, and joy. I give up that I am controlled by fear and that I do not deserve to be loved. That is who I am.” — my Baptiste Yoga mantra 

~~~

When you read my posts and imagine my journey – what do you see? Perhaps me roaming freely in the wild, setting my camp up late after I cannot travel any longer. Can you see my breath on cold nights, the steam as I douse the last embers of my fire, the throbbing pulse of the stars lighting my way to my tent, the stillness of the chaparral as I drift into dreams?

The first day of this trip I went to REI and bought a beautiful brand-new tent. I was proud of it and the adventures I’d have with it. When I went to check-out the woman at the register eagerly asked me, “Where are you headed tonight?” I didn’t know, so I asked her where she thought I should go. She stopped, got lost in a thought, and began to almost smile. “The Great Sand Dunes.” The longer she contemplated the Dunes the happier she seemed to grow: “Oh! There are so many beautiful camp grounds there.” It was spring now on her face. “You must be excited to camp tonight?” I fidgeted. “Well, it’s supposed to be awfully cold…” Sheepishly I went on, “So… I’ll probably just stay in a cheap motel, and then do it later.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged. 

After this embarrassing beginning, my REI bag has been getting ripped to shreds. Not from use exactly. More from each time I shove my suitcase back into my trunk and it catches the corner of the bag after another night at a La Quinta or Best Western. 

So, why haven’t I been camping? Well, I’ve had all sorts of reasons:“It’s been an unseasonably cold spring in the Southwest.” “It’s hard to get the right permits”; “Will other people in camp sites think I’m weird if I’m alone”; “I’m tired today, better get a good night sleep, maybe tomorrow?”; “Do coyotes ever eat campers while they are asleep?”

And so, last night was no different. I’d driven out to Alstrom Point overlooking Lake Powell. To get there requires a 4x4 as the last hour of the drive is a mixture of sand and slip-rock. I went slow and got near the end, but had to stop two miles before the point because that portion required high clearance.

Alstrom Point was a recommendation from Oliver and Harriet (mentioned in the last post). When I arrived and looked down at the waters, I gasped. The water was still, mirror like reflections where I’d expected blue.

Later the winds picked up and rinsed the sandstone from the water’s surface. Now, I was struck by the starkness of the stone above the water. In Minnesota lakes are signs of vitality and life - tall grasses and taller trees. Here, no sign of trees, only stone upon stone.

From my high vantage I could watch the shapes of rain too — from cloud to ground — calligraphy on a parchment sky. 

With the sun at my back, I looked east over the lake, watching the sunset transform the colors of rocks below. There were others photographer’s there too, each one of us perched atop our own rocky outcropping, each one of us madly adjusting our ISOs and shutter speeds with the changing light, gripping our tripods firmly, jumping from stone to stone, looking for new angles, searching for ways to grasp and hold the deepening oranges, purples, and blues before they faded into dusk.

Caption: (New Friends met on the trail 1 of 2) This is Peter, a doctor from Albuquerque, who in his free time leads bespoke photo tours of the Southwest. I asked him when he got into photography, “I got my first camera at 7 and my first SLR at 14. The rest is history.” Peter had ALL the gear, including a whole bag of filters for multiple types of lenses. He also had the most tricked out Jeep I’ve ever seen. He said he spent 5 years working on it. You can check him out at his website: boehringerphotography.com

Caption: (New friends met on the trail 2 of 2) this is my new friend Ken, a chemist from LA. Though he shoots Cannon (forgive him), Ken knows the technical aspect of digital photography inside and out. I learned a lot, and laughed even more, talking with him during both the sunset and sunrise.

As the sandstone cliffs transformed from carmine to vermillion, vermillion to waning hues of gray, I finally turned to look west and saw the sun had disappeared for the night for good. I packed my bag and turned to go. These other photographers had all set up camp near the point, but I still had two miles back to my car in the dark. I hadn’t eaten. It was at least two hours to a motel. I had no reservations, no plan. Where should I go – south to Page or west back to Kanab? 

I thought about camping. But my amorphous fears kept whispering to me reasons why I should drive away. Yet, I said to myself, This isn’t quantum mechanics. Little children camp by themselves. I have a tent. Why don’t I use it?

I once read an ancient Buddhist adage that goes something like this: “If you want understand how you are elsewhere -- observe how you are here.”  

As I walked in the growing darkness, that saying kept looping in my mind. Like a flagellant’s whip, I wielded the phrase skillfully, driving it into my back again and again to cut ever deeper at my pride. With each recitation, each new lash, a new memory of shame would be conjured up. I remembered classes I didn’t take, languages I gave up, jobs I didn’t apply for, friends I didn’t pursue, tasks at work I didn’t do, artistic projects I never started, conversations and conflicts I avoided.

But then another more recent memory came to me. Earlier in the day I’d talked to my friend Kat. We’d been partners for one of the most pivotal self-inquiry exercises during my Baptiste Teacher Training in Sedona. As I was giving voice to my deepest fears about myself - she’d held space for me, saw me, and had great compassion for me. Her love in that moment helped change my life. Since training we’ve been touching base every week to ask each other - “Where is your old story emerging?” and, “Where are you experiencing resistance?” But yesterday she asked me a new question, “How are you living your new truth?”

On this journey it’s become clear to me that without inquiry of the past I cannot break my old patterns, and without breaking my old patterns I cannot grow into the person I want to become. And yet, what I suddenly saw is that self-understanding is only half of the equation (at most). The point of understanding the past is to help let it go – not to meditate on it endlessly, finding ever more ways the patterns were always there. If I want to transform — I must understand so that I can let go, AND act in new ways now.

In her questions she was reminding me to ask myself when I’m struggling – “Do you remember who you ARE? I don’t care who you WERE. How can you affirm your new self in this moment?”

For me, that’s all I needed to drop the whip. What does it matter what I didn’t do before? Just do the thing now. 

I actually started to jog toward my car, a weird feeling of internal warmth, a glow of excitement to set up my camp site, to sleep in the cold.

I’ll be honest. I didn’t sleep particularly well. I kept worrying about phantom footsteps in the dark. I couldn’t find a comfortable position for my body. It was so cold (36F when I woke up) that I slept with 3 layers on as well as a hat and mittens. And despite all that, I did the thing. And when I unzipped the tent at 5:45am to run the 2 miles back to the point for sunrise, I felt stupidly happy about everything. Happy to hear Lark Sparrows sing, happy to see stars, happy to watch them fade into blue. But more than any of those things, I felt so empowered to say yes to whatever emerged before me. I hadn’t realized how much psychic energy this small (unfounded) fear had been holding over me. And now that it’d been released - I felt so freedom, so much joy!

I made it to the point with less than a minute to spare before sunrise. 

An hour later I left the point to do that 2 mile walk yet again. This time, no more darkness. This time, my back bathed in a warm light. This time, with joy and hope in my heart. And with each step I thought, “I AM open, I AM confident, and I AM joyful. How will I live these truths out today?”

~~~

Post script – if you are enjoying these posts, I’d love to hear what is resonating with you. And if you think someone else would enjoy them, please consider sharing them. As I wrote above, part of my life work right now is finding ways to affirm living with openness, confidence, and joy. Sharing myself and my journey through this medium, both with people I love and those I’ve never met, is an expression of that. And more importantly, in this sharing I’m discovering an ever growing sense of grounding, purpose, and life.

Crying Beside The Colorado River

“But he [Depression] just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favorite chair, puts his feet on my table and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs, then climbs into my bed and pulls the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all.” Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

~~~

When I started telling people I was going on this journey, I got many types of reactions. However, if I were to categorize their reactions into three buckets, it’d probably go something like this:  

1. I’m so excited for you! I can’t wait to hear what you discover 

2. I’m so sorry you’ve had such a hard year; I hope you find what you’re looking for

3. I see, you mean like: Eat, Pray, Love?

“Eat Pay Love! F*** you!” I wanted to say – but I’m from Minnesota, so I probably just smiled. The comment seemed to minimize my entire journey (seemingly such a monumental thing for me) and turn it into the playing out of some tired cliché. In fairness, I’d never read Eat Pay Love. But I felt like when people said it, they did so with an undercurrent of sardonic knowing. Despite that, after getting the comment yet again earlier this week for the Nth time, I gave up and downloaded the audiobook. If you can’t escape something, at least do it ironically.

Five minutes in, and I found myself saying that F word again silently in my mind. It’s really good. The prose is evocative and imaginative. The internal struggles she describes are many of the same ones I’ve been trying to navigate. I needed to hear this story, now. The first portion of the book describes her time in Italy. For her, it was a time of fullness, joy, and discovery, and yet, there were many moments, often unexpected, when her old demons came to visit. In one scene that especially struck me, she describes coming home one day after feeling joy and wonder only to discovering Depression and Loneliness (personified), luridly lingering around, waiting to rough her up like mob muscle or corrupt cops in a film noir. “Wherever you go, there you are,” I thought. 

After Baptiste Level 1 Training, I felt like I’d been transformed. I could see my old self-limiting stories so clearly. I understood why so many relationships in my life had fallen apart. I felt a wellspring of joy that had been dammed off for so long. I felt so empowered to change the course of my life, to change all the broken relationships... 

And yet, this morning, I found myself beside perhaps the most stunning road in America (Utah-128), looking out over the Colorado River and watching the sun reflect off the cliff faces. What more beauty could I hope for? And yet, I couldn’t stop crying. This was a new experience. What kind of a man cries without reason? I berated myself. And In Public? Alone?! 

This trip has been marked by so much opening up, but this morning I could feel myself withdrawing again – falling back into old patterns of hiding, fear, and self-loathing. Is this really a time of transformation or just a hiatus? Maybe what happens on the mountaintop can’t be brought back to valley. Are all my relationships doomed to deteriorate the longer I am with that person? Why can I only express my heart so freely through text, but clam up when I’m face-to-face with people I love? Am I just running away, like a child, without a plan, expecting someone else will find me? My old favorite quote kept reverberating around in my mind, like a prophesy of doom: “It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.”

It’s not that I don’t see that these fears are part of my old stories – it’s that they seem to be still be true! That is the true punch to the gut. It’s same feeling I imagine a prisoner must have, thinking he escaped, seeing the outside, taking that first step into the fresh air, ready to run, only to fall down -- discovering an unbreakable fetter was still around his ankle.   

But no – I know this cynical hopelessness is part of my old story too. Perhaps it is better to imagine these old stories as wolves roaming the mesas of my mind. I have long fed them, and they’ve grow strong. They are part of me, and so I cannot kill them; but I can stop feeding them; and if I do, in time their howls may grow weak; so enfeebled they’ll be as indistinguishable and impermanent as the wind. 

Yes, my life is littered with broken relationships. Yes, my patterns of thought are deeply ingrained. Yes, I don’t know where I am going. Yes, wherever I go there I am. And that’s why I’m on this journey. If I knew how to get there, I’d already be there. If it were easy, it would already be done. 

In the midst of my tears I began to text my brother – half way around the world in Africa – spilling my fears and frustrations to him in a way I never do. He was so kind and loving -- so reassuring.

So often in the past I’ve tried to carry all my striving alone – but salvation can only come in admitting my inadequacy to change alone AND not to wallow alone in that truth, but to trust that there are many others who want to stand beside me in my brokenness.

If I’m able to bring the mountaintop back into the valley, I know this is the path I need to trust. 

Post script - several of you have asked me whether it’s okay to forward my emails to others. The answer is yes. I am fully owning this journey (physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually). I have no shame in admitting my struggles or hesitance in sharing my joys, even to perfect strangers. That integration is part of the work I need to do right now. So, if you think one of my posts would be interesting (or better yet helpful) to someone - please send it to them! It would make me very happy to know my words are finding their way to those that need them.

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Great Sand Dunes National Park

A reflection on learning to confront my fears of being alone, realizing I need to love myself before I can accept anyone else’s love, and finding joy in making my own path — all in the The Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado (continue reading below…)

The full moon rising over the Sangre De Cristos and lighting up the dunes. Taken at F4, ISO 200, 8 sec.

During my Baptiste Training I discovered that deep down I believed (and feared) that I will never be worthy of love. Ironically, my fear became a self-fulfilling prophesy. The more I was afraid, the harder I sought out affirmations from people who I thought “mattered”. Yet, the more mental energy I put into getting others’ affirmation the more depressed and isolated I felt! As long as I believed that I needed others’ affirmations, the more impossible it was for me to actually experience true love or friendship. If someone liked me, I worried it was because I had fooled them (and if they knew the truth they’d stop respecting me). Or, if they didn’t, I would internalize the rejection and use it to affirm my insecurities. Opening the aperture even further, this belief prevented me from living life on my own terms. I believed that to be loved meant only taking certain jobs or behaving in certain ways. If there was a prestigious well-worn trail in front of me, I felt like I had no choice. I had to climb it.

A line of hikers all climbing up the High Dune on the same path

Now I see that I’d been in a prison of my own making. If I truly love myself, not for who I project to be, but who I actually am, then I don’t need to be afraid of being alone. I am enough. And paradoxically, the more truly confident I am (including owning my failings and fears), the more easily I connect with total strangers and loved ones alike! When I exude pride in what I’m doing, look people in the eye, and care about them for them (not so I can get affirmed for caring!) – I’ve been having some of the most surprising and beautiful encounters of my entire life.

My two days in the Great Sand Dunes National Park demonstrated this powerfully. On the first night, I climbed the “High Dune”, which is about 700 vertical feet of sand. When I got the top of the ridge I saw a man with a tripod. I made my way to him to talk about photography. I ended up talking to him (he was my age) and his parents (both recently retired from government service) for about two hours. We shared the stories of our lives as climbed from ridge to ridge trying to capture the changing light on the sand. 

Once the sun set the magic really started to happen. With the western sky still glowing near the horizon, the full super moon appeared first as a sliver, then a half circle, and finally hovered fully rounded above the peak of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains to the east. We gasped as the light began to fill the valleys of sand below our feet. Our fingers were numb at this point, but we kept adjusting our ISO and shutter speeds trying to capture the light. 

As we walked back toward the way down we ran into five other people who were watching the moon rise too. Before I even knew who they were I asked, “Who wants to howl at the moon?”. I counted down from three and we all bayed in unison until we fell into laughter. 

I wish I would have stayed at the top as the family I met walked down, but for a moment I felt the need to stick with them. But midway down, I realized that was the old me. I had had my time of beautiful connection with them, and I wanted to photograph the moon a little while longer. I bade them farewell and stayed alone on the dunes late into the night.

In the morning I discovered that the “High Dune” hike was actually the ONLY official hike open this time of year in the park. Not only that, but there were no open restaurants for lunch or dinner within 45 minutes. Why had I stayed an extra day I wondered? However, once I got over my need to do the “official” or “known” hike, I gave myself permission to just wander, and again that’s when magic happened for me.  

I drove my car as far I could on a dirt road, and then just started to hike not knowing where to. As I approached a creek at the base of the dunes I saw there was a dune in the distance that looked even taller than the High Dune. Unlike the High Dune which is hiked hundreds of times a day, there were no other footprints in the sand near the creek. So, I had to choose where to go and find my own way to get there. 

You can see the dune I climbed in the center of the photo. All you can see of it is its peak (lit up) rising above a ridge before it. It was ~700 vertical feet from the base of the dunes to the top.

What a perfect metaphor for this entire sabbatical! I could spend the rest of this trip doing it on other’s terms and going to all the famous places I’m supposed to go. Or, I can follow my intuition each day, wander toward unknown vistas, change course on a dime, and figure out by trial and error how to get to wherever I decide to aim. The first way would lead to a safe and beautiful trip. The latter is so much riskier – who knows what will happen. But, when it’s over, I will know I made my own path. 

Taken on my way down the hike - you can see both my footprints going up and coming back down the dunes in both the near ground and higher up in the background

Back at the dunes - my path (the one I created) was so steep at times I had to crawl and dig my hands into the sand to get up. But was it ever worth it! I’ve rarely felt such a sense of wonder and accomplishment upon getting to the peak. 

At the top I saw storms were coming. So, after just a few minutes I headed down. As I did the winds picked up violently. Sand was pelting my face and arms and getting into my eyes. And without warning it started to snow! I don’t know how to explain quite how strange it is to see swirling snow on top of a sand dune that gets to be over 140F in the summer. But there I was. Thankfully, the storm passed quickly, and as I approached the bottom the sun actually began to shine!

As I descended, I felt a great sense of pride following my footsteps in the sand back down. Here was visual evidence that I had made this path. Not only had it brought me joy to make, but now it was helping me descend safely (and perhaps would guide some future hiker too).  

I was entirely alone for this hike. I envisioned it on my own. I figured it out the path on my own. I climbed it alone. In the past I think I would have come down the from the mountain lonely – believing it to not have mattered if it wasn’t shared. And, yes, of course, sharing it would have been beautiful. But that lack alone doesn’t invalidate the value of experience for me. I feel so much pride and joy at the way I discovered and completed this hike alone. Doing it is affirms for me yet again how I need to let go of my need to live life on other people’s terms, and instead embrace my own process of discovery - even though I don’t always know where I’m headed.