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.
