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.

Underneath A Juniper Tree

When I woke up there were two turkey vultures circling so closely overhead I could see not only the whiteness of their under-wings and the redness of their beaks, but I could also hear the sound of the wind passing between their feathers. 

“Hey, I’m not dead!” I groggily shouted at them. 

I was propped against a juniper tree, enjoying its shade. I checked my watch. It was 5pm, and I’d been sleeping for an hour. I didn’t know where I was exactly, having wandered about 30 minutes into the chaparral away from the nearest trail to this spot earlier in the afternoon. But the longer I sat there, the happier I felt. So, I just kept sitting, breathing, not moving. In that silence, I watched a Pinyon Jay land on another juniper. Then a second. And soon a flock – iridescent blue, fingered feathers – flitting tree to tree, branch by branch. Like a desert wind they floated into my world unexpectedly and shook me, but as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. Later, a herd of antler-less elk appeared. I wanted to hold my breath to steal a few extra seconds with them. But, one saw me. Looking at me quizzically, he craned his neck, snorted a little, and turned, leading the others away in a half-hearted canter. 

I was alone in the wilderness, and I’d rarely felt so full.

When I started this journey, someone told me he didn’t understand why anyone would travel alone. “I don’t see the point of experiencing something if you have no one to share the memory with. It’s like if a tree falls in a forest and there’s no one to hear...”

I understand where he is coming from. Completely. I’ve felt that way in the past too. I remember traveling alone several years ago and feeling an acute sense of isolation after just two days. After having spoken to literally no one in 24 hours except waiters, I remember eavesdropping on nearby tables at my hotel in case there’d be some moment I could jump in. How embarrassing… 

And yet, this time, it feels so different. Of course, there are moments when I feel acutely lonely. Of course, there are moments when I’m griped with sadness. But my commitment to traveling alone has been opening up so much for me. I think it is because traveling alone has given me the space to redefine my relationships with 1) myself, 2) the natural world, and 3) others.

At first, in the hours of silence, I had to face myself, as I am, not as I want to be seen. As an unconscious people pleaser and a flirt, it’s been easy for me to contort myself into whoever I think the person I am with wants me to be. It’s been easy for me fall into despair if I wasn’t being adored. 

But when I’m alone for hours and hours at a time, out of cell service range, no music in my ears, free of distractions and people to please, that is a much harder trick. This can be excruciating. In the worst moments of shame and fear I can want to desperately find reassurance elsewhere – but miles off the path, amid the chaparral, the hawks and elk aren’t likely to tell me I’m beautiful. There’s no one to comfort me, but me. I must stand with myself, as a I am. In time, if I sit with the discomfort long enough, it always goes away. I’m enough. As are you. I don’t need to pretend, and I don’t need to be afraid of being alone. Nor do you. I am learning I am capable of finding peace with myself when I alone, and it’s been extremely empowering.

From this place of confidence, I’m also beginning to see how much control I have over my emotional well-being too. For instance, while I cannot control when I feel sadness, I can control my reaction to it. I can wallow in it. I can succumb to hopelessness. I can try to let it go. Similarly, I cannot control when I feel happy, but I can cultivate a practice of gratitude, even when I’m feeling sad. In this, I’m finding traveling alone isn’t just making me feel more confident, it’s making me feel more powerful. 

Traveling alone has also taught me to live in the radical now. By illustration – how many times have I been on a hike and midway through my mind wanders or I check my phone? It’s so hot. How long do I have to go? When will I hit those the hills we have to climb? I’m so hungry. I wonder how I’ll ever patch things up with my friend? I have so much work, I need to get back and do it. Do I have service yet? Do I have any new emails or likes to my post? … How often? More than I wish to admit. But stepping back, I see now, it’s not just on the trail, but it was also in my office, in meetings, on phone calls, on my yoga mat, and at dinners with friends I care deeply about… 

In contrast, traveling alone has given me the space to practice observing what is emerging before me right now, and simply staying with that. This is the opposite of how I lived my entire life up to this point – with obsessive planning on how to create happy outcomes elsewhere, later. Or obsessive checking for additional external stimuli elsewhere. When I do those thing I often fail to see the complexity and enchantment that’s always already been at my feet (even amid the awkwardness, hunger, brambles, and the sand storms). I’m seeing now that I’m often surrounded by serendipity, it’s just I didn’t sit still enough through the discomfort to see it; didn’t hold space for it to emerge in its own way. 

When I simply sit still -- confident of myself, free of the need for attachment, holding space for whatever (or whoever) is before me, as I did on the juniper’s trunk -- I’m finding fantastical, irrational, imprudent, overflowing reservoirs of wonder, love, and joy. So much more connection is available in this moment than can ever be planned for tomorrow. The world is so much more beautiful and complex than any dreams I am capable of fathoming on my own. 

Traveling alone is giving me chances every day to practice this. And though I still often fail – more and more I’m finding myself found in rapturous enchantment with strangers and the world alike.

Caption: Moonrise over The Grand Staircase Escalante

Caption - new friends I met on a trail (1 of 3). This couple (Oliver and Harriet) shipped their army style camouflaged camper from Berlin and are touring the US for a full year. Asked why now, Oliver said their daughter is gone for the year on an exchange program. As Oliver said this, Harriet made a fist pump of joy.

Caption - new friends I met on a trail (2 of 3). Gail (on the left) retired 2 years ago and has been exploring the US in her camper ever since. She’s driven 50,000 miles and hiked 9,000 miles since her retirement party. Her friend Elizabeth (right), is visiting her this week. She was wearing Williams headband (my alma mater) not because her son went there, but because the purple cow “reminds her of Swiss chocolate… I hate logos, but I LOVE chocolate”. She noted (half proudly, half-ruefully), that her son had just left his job too. “They must teach you to live a life full of meaning at Williams…”

Caption - new friends I met on a trail (3 of 3). I helped encourage (and hoist) both of them up the entrance into Peek-a-boo canyon after she was about to give up. After she’d made it to the ledge, the woman began to tell me all about her son and how last year when they visited him they went climbing together. He set up routes for her. She said she climbed a 90 feet wall that day. She couldn’t believe it, but her son knew she was capable of it - when her feet touched the ground at the end she burst into tears - but she did it. She paused, no longer shaking, a wide smile across her face: “You remind me of him.”

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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