Category: blog

A strange place to hold space for your past, feel the weight of the present, and be excited for a future.
I once heard David White call this “the long site.” 

Our society is so focused on the present that it ignores the past and the future.
We are told to have only the present, which seems so small and limiting. There is only one leaf on a tree that is you, and one tree in a forest that could be you. You don’t get to see the sunrises, looking only at the leaf for fear of watching the darkness descend from a sunset.

But what if our lives are so vast that you can be in all of it at once when you need to.
Like a forest, there is old growth, fallen trees covered in moss, once hopes that never manifested but decaying in your subconscious, either rotting away in the darkness or giving nutrients to a new dream.
There are seeds for thousands of trees of possible futures, whatever one you choose to watch grow.
The present moment, every breath as unique as a leaf on a tree,  is where you can spend time enjoying the simple pleasures of the moment in whatever environment. With the warmth of a summer day, or watching them turn, brilliant in colors of red and yellow, then fall to the ground in the next breath, giving nutrients to a possible future for seeds below.

Sometimes, the moment is dark and cold, like a winter night, but we allow this, as it is just part of the process. We know dawn is a new day, and spring is not far away.

And your future is all around you and within you, seeds being nourished by your past if you allow them. Whatever seed you decide to watch grow,
Your whole existence is like a forest,
My past is clear but always changing, from the pain of a forest fire to understanding how it allows for new growth. Dreams of old trees rotting if ignored, I can see the beautiful fungi, moss, and ferns growing from this. It’s mycorrhizal, feeding a whole life.
I can watch it with a smile, the pain of the past, knowing it’s part of the evolution of my life sitting in the moment. I can look up from here, listen to the birds, and hear the rustling of critters there.
I can see a future within me, with every seed and every tree. No matter the hurt from lost dreams, I can use them to build a life with the potential for a full and dense future like an old-growth forest.

Where you can see all my past as part of the beauty, guiding how new ideas and dreams grow, moss-covered stumps, with sprouts of trees, creeks, and running water, foxglove, and fireweed brightening up the remains of a painful fire, adding color and life to the blackened remains of a dream.
Some days, when my mind is quiet.

I can almost see the ghosts of a future I’ve yet to witness and bear.  It will have its summers and light and butterflies. And it will have cold, dark winters, with death and decay.
But this is my forest, my life, my garden of a soul. My past, present, and future are all within.
Be present to all of it with an open heart. Then, you choose what seeds grow into your future, fed by the pain of your past, with gratitude in the present.
Your life will make for a grand forest.

It has been close to a year since I stopped writing.

I will forever be settled in my heart with the words,

We could have kept going; we could have made it.

The Mountains are my internal battleground, where the quiet whispers of self-doubt internally form, and we go to war. I watch my fears rumble under my skin, see my friends’ excitement and smiles, and watch them push through their pain and struggles as we all laugh at the difficulty and accomplishments.

I heard a quote not long ago.

 “If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go with friends.”

Moran!

The weather window kept being pushed back, so the party changed and finally settled with Brad, Nick, and me.

Plan to leave town at 10 pm and start the long journey over the lake by 11pm.

A little late, we start the walks around 11:30.

A sky full of stars, a moonless night; there is to be a meteor shower, and we are excited to see some shooting stars.

It is 6 miles to cross the lake, the distant outline of the Tetons and Moran guiding us.

Light banter, we laugh, purgatory, feeling like we are walking and getting nowhere, the outlines of the mountains, so very slowly get bigger.

It’s spring, and rapid warming is our primary concern; we plan to summit soon after sunrise.

I know how much my little push off the mountain last year affected our fearless leader. Brad, who is not fearless at all, brave in a way, showing us all beautiful experiences and knowing a lot falls on his decisions, route, and timing. Guiding a group is hard, and I want to give everyone a great experience while keeping them safe. For me, letting people down and getting hurt takes up so much mental space; I don’t know how he does it.

Watching me get taken out by a small wall of snow, less than a hundred feet, still weighs on him.

We turn the headlamps off, and the only thing visible is the black outline of the Tetons and the Black silhouette of my companions. This view struck me as beautiful. So simple but with so much meaning

Under this surface is a vast history of adventures, laughs, tears, memories they share, memories we all share; just under these black silhouettes,

I felt like each black figure was a 2-dimensional door I could open into a world of memories they each held. A whole universe lapsed in time, within each of them, too vast for me to comprehend, grateful to be a part of.

We changed course to move into Moran Bay, a group behind us and one rustling in tents that came out early to camp the day before.

We make our way up the initial trees, the “Push Trees,” Weaving through light forest and a few steeper places.

It opens to the clearing, a place I remember from the year before. We are earlier this time, so I cannot make out the immense mass of the mountain in front of me, but I know it’s there.

The temperature has been shifting, and pockets of frigid air come and go.

It’s a little after 2 a.m.; I feel weak. The whispers of self-doubt are beginning to make their first appearances on the edges of my thoughts.

We stopped, snacked, and hydrated; it’s amazing how a little food and water can change your attitude. I was excited about a chicken salad sandwich I had made, but it was frozen, which was disappointing. I ate half of it anyway and learned a bit about sandwich maintenance and midnight lake crossings.

I had given Brad some caffeine and vitamin B energy drops for water a week ago. He gave me a gulp of his creation, and we both said something was wrong. He told me he put both bottles in, and that struck a red flag; I remember the little squeeze bottles saying something like 18 servings, but he said one squeeze per cup; I was not in a mental state to debate the issue, as a cold pocket swept in, and I started shivering. Time to keep moving.

I can’t see much; we are on the mountain, and the red light only shows me a 4-foot radius. Pro and cons of this.

I did not know where I was relative to anything; my mind spun with hope; maybe we were in the Handle, to despair; we had not even gotten to the Basin. I checked my phone at one point to say 4:15, and I knew I still had a long way to go.

We march up; the snow is hard and slick, and I’m fine with just my skin for the first hour. Then it gets steeper as we work over wet slide debris from past warming cycles. I’m slipping every third step, and it’s slowing me down, taking a lot of energy. My team was not far ahead, but I knew I would struggle, so I stopped on a 40-degree icy slope to put on ski crampons.

These were Mattys, and the first time I’d ever used them. Wise personal choice, as I stopped delicately making my way up and could march with the Crampons chomping on the track. I made good time to catch up.

The Basion,

We regrouped; I hope they did not wait long for me, maybe 5 minutes ahead. I kept thinking they were going slow for me, so we did not get too far apart, but also maybe not; perhaps I am getting faster.

Being too slow, I think, is one of the biggest fear for so many of us; the caboose.

Too slow and avalanches hold a similar sense of panic, the social fear of I’m not good enough and I’m not worthy of having people wait for me. Facing that fear holds so many back from even attempting to join.

I have been told I was slow my whole life.

One of my first memories.

Being left behind at a relative’s house as the family went on a day vacation to Victoria Island to see the Gardens. I was maybe 3 years old. Told I could not go because I was too slow, and no one wanted to carry me.

Accidentally making me believe I was too slow and not worth the effort.

I can understand as an adult, but at 3, it began to fracture my sense of self.

Undermine my value, an identity I was given; slow, a burden.

It compounded as an issue and snowballed, gaining mass speed as I grew older. I think Therapists call these “Initial Traumas.” The creation of a filter, how I saw myself within the world. Slow and Burden. So many harmless actions and words were seen through this filter, looking for a reaffirmation of the original belief.

One of the battles I have with myself as I climb these mountains.

Slow at math and reading, to being named “polly polly,” meaning slowly slowly, given by a girlfriend when she would take me to the backcountry. The filter darkens.

How often was I told I was not good enough to go?

No matter how often Brand, Nick, and my friends tell me I’m fine and fast enough, those scares are there and ache like arthritis in my mind.

I took the crampons off as we continued up The Skillet, longer switchbacks and softer snow without the warm slide debris to struggle with.

Still just watching the 2 red lights above me in different places, we continue. The switchbacks are steep and rugged for me. I’m not sliding, but the level of balance and gymnastics I need to accomplish is strenuous and time-consuming.

Finally, after six hours in the dark, sunrise approaches, the black turning to grey, the light slowly lifts our spirits, exhaustion is lingering in the distance of my thoughts, and none of us has had any sleep.

I picked up this mental habit of counting my steps to 100, over and over and over and over. It stops my mind from questioning my capabilities, One two three four, watching my steps, forty-five forty-six, I’m tired, forty-seven for eight.

I can feel part of my brain that wants to complain and start down that spiral, 78,79,80. It is enough to drown it out. I have more mantras for when things are at their worst. But here, it keeps me focused.

Brad and Nick have stopped one switch back up; they are transitioning from skinning to Verts. Small snowshoes that fit with snowboard bindings

We are in the narrow part, the steep Handle. I’m grateful for the change; different mussels and being the caboose have their advantages. My friends make the steps nice and solid so I can catch up quickly.

I rarely see Brad pull back. Something is wrong, so we stop and chat. He said he had been feeling ill most of the morning and could not eat. I can see the “bonk” in his face.

He thinks the caffeine water he drank made his stomach too upset to eat. My guilt for giving him the drops takes over. I passed Nick a few feet below as he grabbed a snack and water.

I climb above and attempt setting the boot pack. It’s over two feet deep and crumbling on a 50%- degree slope. This is miserable hell! Wallowing, it’s called.

I can make it maybe 10 minutes before my body and muscles give out.

This is a testament to how insanely strong Brad is; I keep saying his muscles live in another dimension on his almost 6 foot 140 lb frame.

Sick, with no food and no sleep, he has made it this far, setting the track. He is a machine and a really good man.

The sun peeks over the horizon; we stop to admire where we are, and how far we have come. The beauty of it all.

Nick perks up after some food and takes over. I know he is also growing a few nasty blisters from the lake crossing. So he can’t be feeling terrific. And pushing through foot pain.

We rotate,  I maxed out at 100 steps. But so proud I was even able to help! That’s huge for me; I’m not dying 100 feet below everyone. The joy in being able to help almost equals the absolute suffering this is. So we continue for about an hour, moving too slowly for comfort.

Then we feel it, the sun on our faces and the heat on!

Memories flood; I’m just a few hundred feet above where I was pushed off last year. When the snow got too warm, the sluff came and got me.

I feel ok, miserable but ok. Brad stops, and we talk; it will take at least an hour and a half to summit in this snow. I realize how much last year affected him; he will not chance any rapid warming, as it can go from safe to “Get off the fucking mountain!” in 5 minutes.

Brad had not eaten in 5 hours, Nick was hitting his physical limits, and we still had to get back.

It was not an easy call, but I do not mind stopping and turning back as long as I’m not the one calling for it. The well-being of our group is the priority, not a summit.

I had already summited so many internal mountains. I was so happy to be standing with 2 friends in a beautiful place. And I did not give up on myself; I was able to keep up, kind of help, and was not a burden to the group!

I was just overjoyed to be there; the summit was never the goal. The goal was to spend the day doing hard and beautiful things with people I love to make memories with.

We called it and started the descent. One at a time.

When we got back to the lake,

Brad said we could have made it.

I replied. I’ll take 1,000. “We could have made it.” over one, “We should have turned around!!”

Brad said that was one of the worst conditions he had ever experienced on Moran.

And the Gravity of all of this hit,

Brad: “I don’t know how many more Moran’s I have in me.”

He has summited Moran at least 10 times.

And I was reminded so hard and so fast,

There will always be a last time. The last time to see the sunrise from there, the last time I’ll try and summit that mountain with my friends.

How sad that seems; it made me appreciate sitting in the parking lot, comparing blisters with Nick even more special. Knowing that there will be the last time, we will bitch about how hard that was, looking across the lake, amazed that not long ago, we were right up there. Almost on top of that huge mountain.

For Matty, It’s for you. I try and make you proud and be the friend you would have been! You left some pretty big shoes to fill, buddy!

I always feel ashamed of posting selfies
Maybe I judge others too harshly, as to their motivations.

Told that seeking attention was a sinful act. Something that lesser women do.
or some such nonsense, societal judgments, projection of our insecurities on others, things I was told from a pharisaic society. ( a filter I have)

I have a difficult time taking pride in myself, not just in my actions but in myself, as a human female. 

I never understood what being female meant, confused and uncomfortable, hiding myself, and when I would want to shine, so uncomfortable in my skin, I would instantly regent the dress, hair, makeup.

The attention for appearance confused me, as I would reject it. Shame.

Feminism, rejects the feminine in a divine sense, chasing, I can do what you can do, Proving worth in a masculine world. Necessary, but not wholly true.  

Fine, yes I’ve lived that life, many women have.

And I still feel the rejection, but from within me of me, rejecting needs, desires, softness, vulnerability.

This is me 41, Entertained by getting older. 
The most amazing part is, the past few years is the first time I’ve been able to look at myself with kindness. 
I no longer shrink away from the mirror or photos. I no longer have the voices that rip everything about me apart! 
I can look at myself and see I’m, Beautiful in my own way, and just fine. 

I smile when I look in the mirror and talk to myself as a friend.
The beast that lives in me destroyed a lot of the negative chatter. 

What I look like is the least interesting thing about me. But it is who I am, and the body, face, and structure given to me by generations of love, fear, fighting, surviving, thriving and starving, passion and pain. All the way back to the supposed Adam and Eve, More Lilith in me,   

By body and this experience on earth should be celebrated, as in fact, it is a miracle given to me by my parents.

Why do I feel shame in not being what I think Is expected of me? And not just finding the joy in the beauty that is me and all things created in nature.

I don’t feel feminine in fancy clothes shoes hair and make-up. Mine lives under my skin, in my body, in dance, movement, acceptance compassion, in my eyes, and in my touch. My very Breath can be divinely feminine, and make men crumble.

This body I was given, by whatever divine creates all of this. Is the only one I have, for a brief time! Why not enjoy and celebrate it, love it, and let it be loved.

It’s been a few; I’ve not been writing as much. Being an adult who has to work and make life happen, I have been busy and distracted. Or, at the very least, attempt to show up as life happens to me.
Much of my previous writing acknowledged my demons, pain, hurt and fear, mods, emotions, and depression. Gaslighting is a fun buzzword. We gaslight ourselves as much as others do to us. So I walked into all hurt.

What a fun process.
Then things changed,

Slowly my demons became my strengths; as I accepted more of myself, I became more confident. But, at the same time, the more of Myself I accepted, the more I started to let go.

Like rummaging through an old wardrobe from the 90s, I accepted the baggy jeans and crop tops of the late 90s, remembering I was trying to fit in so badly.
I did not need to hold on to any of the emotions from that time. I let go of the identities someone gave me and the thoughts I held about myself. I did this by allowing myself to experience all the confusing emotions and rewriting the story about that time. It was a clean story, not elaborate, filled with drama and unresolved memories, like cleaning a corner of the window that was my identity. I did not need to have all that pain to look through.
I started to think of this process as “The Art of Emptying” or “Cleaning the window of my ego.”

If I did not like something about myself, a trait I picked up along the way. It was up to me to change it. So, as I focused more on who I was and being brutally honest, I was less focused on what anyone else thought.
I started to play the game, Build a Bitch.
I have some fun, not-so-lovely sides, but that’s what I want.
I’m not all sweet and sugar; I unapologetically added some lemon and spice.

When you start to own who you are, you become less threatened by others. And it’s fun to see each individual’s art, see them as such, from different backgrounds, materials, and all kinds of things. Where they are in life is no reflection of you; just owning yourself, no excuses.
I’m not perfect; I’m just playing the game of Heather, creating the art of my life to the best of my ability whit what I have

My body, partly tan, covered in water, my toes exposed on the other end of the tub.
Tan lines, stretch marks, a few scars. My body, 40 years old, all the places it has been, all the things it has done. My body, all the people it has loved, all those that have ridiculed, shamed or abused it.
I may have been the worst.

I spent many years taking everything negative said about me and amplifying it in the confines of my mind. Though those people and incidences are long ago and far away, the memories are always on replay in some form or another. They became my Identity, how I saw myself in the world.

I was all things negative with a megaphone inside.

It’s not easy to change your Identity; neuroscience teaches us that. I had unconsciously kept myself in situations that would reinforce this negative view of myself, easier than finding people that challenged it. It was hard to be around people who said nice things about me, as I’d had to fight with my view of myself. It made me uncomfortable, so I stuck around with people that would ever so slightly put me down. To make themselves feel better. That’s my place; it was comfortable there. I did not have to change my internal dialogue.

Sitting in my bathtub, water warm incents and oil, fun little rituals, being a woman, soft thighs, and a lightly round belly. Precisely as it should be, no thoughts of shame or anger, judgments or comparing. Just looking at it, some bellies make babies; that’s cool.
Feeling how thick my legs are, leaning into my feminine. Women are supposed to be a little soft and round, my breast thicker than usual, finally eating to fill my body, to flesh myself out.
I feel more solid as a woman, “sexy little belly” I hear it for what it is now, a man that appreciates a woman’s body how it’s supposed to be.

It has taken a long time to face the internalized hate, disgust, and shame dialogue. How much I devalued my body—generations of a woman’s value coming from her looks, shape, and size.
I was never meant to be frail, dainty, delicate. I was built to hold muscle, be strong, and push it to its limits. Though I never did, I just spent a life starving it to fit a picture someone told me I should be.
If I looked like someone else, I would have value, Though when I got close, I still never felt it, my mind still only holding the negative self-hate dialogue.

I had to cure the inside, find beauty in all women, and myself, find value in what my body can do for me, and push it. Separate my view of myself from those around me, listen to good friends who see the beauty in people and celebrate it, not diminish it.
And never forget to let my body be happy. I don’t let my mind walk down the comparison game. I am uniquely me, and that is pretty special. My beauty comes from owning this, loving it, and valuing all parts of me.
My tan belly glistened in the bath, feeling sexy because it’s a woman’s body; it does woman things; how amazing is that?

Pain-
Pain, A feeling we try so hard to avoid. Push down, ignore and pretend it is not there.
When did being hurt become a sign of weakness?
When did pain cause us to be a victim? When did pain start being hidden and not worn as a testament to strength?
We are applauded when we get up after falling. When we try again, though emotionally, no one sees us fall, and we are often too scared to get back up. Rarely is there an applaud for trying again, just cushioned the road ahead is hard, you saw how hard, might as well stay safe. I have been hurt by friends as much as lovers in my lifetime; that’s not a one-way street. No one is perfect.

Often we talk about pain in physical terms of working out; no pain, no gain, rings true in a gym.

The pain my body goes through trying to keep up with friends in the mountains is not something I hide or avoid. I push through, and it takes me to incredible places, each more profound than the prior.
Until the pain is no longer pain, just part of the adventure, something to be shared with the group, an experience that unites us on our quest for pretty places.

With this perspective, the pain in my heart is just a part of becoming stronger and more confident in myself.
Growing and learning who I am and who others are, on an adventure of the soul, learning the landscapes inside the heart.
I get the opportunity to share my adventure with others, the pain of climbing mountains, and the joy. I get to share the pain and joy in my heart with others.

I do not wish to avoid the pain that my heart has, past or future, as I know I’m strong enough to keep going, head high. As facing those mountains, the ones inside have helped me become the friend I needed, and somehow I got to be the friend they needed.

And like the mountains, it does not hurt much anymore; it’s just part of the adventure. One made worthwhile by the people in it.

I will wear my pain with pride, like the mountains I have hiked.
I will face my fears inside like I face my fears outside.
Fear of failure, inadequacy, rejection.
Every friendship I have is just like the mountains I climb.
I had to bring the best of me to get the quality of you.

The Ocean within

I have gone through a lot to open myself, to look at myself with honesty and compassion. Let my guard down. Take in as much information as I can; I read Carl Jung, Carolyn Elliott, Sam Harris, and all of the goodness he brings to the World. I meditate on feelings and emotions, but feelings “literally” has the word feel, like you have to feel them.

It has taken time, but I’m learning to feel deep; through my whole being, purposely letting my soul break open with love and compassion, To hold myself in fear and sadness. Love is more painful than you can imagine; it’s not a warm fuzzy feeling; it’s a soul screaming desire for joy, easily all-consuming. Truly letting my body feel love, Like holding my breath underwater, I can’t experience it for long, before it becomes too painful, but I’m getting better.

There are nice, not-so-deep levels that fill me with joy, smiles, and hugs—playing in the shallower end of emotions.
Easily a comfortable place to play, realizing it’s safe and fun after exploring deeper waters, where the pressure of the trueness of love can crush you.

I’ve spent time in meditation, playing with the levels of depth love can go, and training myself to feel. I’ve become comfortable in the deep dark abyss of pain and love. I hold myself there, fearlessly exploring the depths of myself. The ocean within.

Letting it be ok to truly feel, as the depth of love is as crushing as the depth of sorrow.
When you dive that deep, trust yourself here, and you learn to feel safe swimming in the ocean of emotion. Enjoying its beauty and getting to know all the creatures living there. The monsters in the deep are no longer monsters.

So many people live right next to this ocean, aware of it, living in fear of it, and the things that reside there. Being controlled by their fear of it or desire to control it, told over and over that is a bad dangerous place. So many beaten and bruised by the shore break.

I had to train myself to feel again. I had to let it be ok, to feel deeply, and it was a terrifying experience. Easier to keep the headspace of analyzing and thinking about how it all works as a way to control and not feel.

The Ego tells itself it understands and does not need to feel. The Ego can read books about the ocean, think through the concepts of atmospheric pressure, and say, No, I understand the sea; we don’t need to dive in. I can tell you all about it, but I don’t know what it feels like to experience it.

When you let yourself feel, the difference is that you know the experience, viscerally, feel the cold dark abyss of the ocean, feel the pressure of it crushing your bones. Learning not to fear the creatures there but becoming curious and friendly, comfortable, safe, and free to swim with them. Nothing is bad or good in the ocean, Sharks, angle fish; they just are; I don’t need to have an opinion of good or bad here. That’s for people that have never swum that deep; they can be scared of sharks from the shore as I swim with them within.
Swimming with my needs and desires, fear, pain, anger, and jealousy. All these things that have been condemned by society 2 thousand years ago, the same people that thought wales were demons. Stupid humans, Vilifying emotions.

I know the fear of possible damage when going too deep, and calm myself, holding myself as I take the time to rise to the surface. I relax, and let the currents help me swim. The Ego that reads the books does not know the joy of swimming in the ocean. The Ego assesses and judges that a shark is bad and dangerous from above. The Ego will never experience the joy and thrill of Swiming with Sharks the beauty and wonder of the power in them.

The Ego, I think, fearful maybe, tried swimming in the deep end, with no training, almost killing them, learning how terrifying that World can seem.
The Ego says, No, I am ok, never going there again.

Hard to explain the joy and beauty of diving to someone who was almost destroyed by it. Or only read books and seen pictures. That is enough, Keeping the World of emotions at a safe distance and never admitting to their fear of it, making excuses. That World makes you weak, Less of a “man”. It’s filled with bad things, like sharks and stingrays and jellyfish.
But these are the things of our dreams, songs, and stories, the forbidden desire to swim with sharks, to be tied up, to be desired, to take joy in rage. Some outdated idea saying it’s bad.
Bad to let yourself feel…

The deepest courage a person can know is to dive into this World.
After learning the full depths of your soul, you can come to the surface. Walk this World wielding vulnerability as the most powerful strength you have.
As you can walk this World being aware and unharmed by others’ pain, fears, and insecurities. As you swim with your own, with joy, compassion, and understanding, you can swim and dance with theirs.

Wait until this little mermaid becomes Pisidian in her world….. Terrifying!

Tails I win; Heads you lose.

Success is a difficult concept: a double-edged sword, two sides on a spinning quarter, unsure what side will face up.
Heads I lose, tails you win.

Why do I fear success? A lifetime of wanting to be accepted, to fit in. Success is isolating; it breaded resentment and jealousy.

Fearful of giving something 100%, showing up short, true failure.
Fearful of succeeding and seeing that look of jealousy in their eyes.

Success makes people feel their insecurities.

I want to be accepted; liked.
I’d rather be dull in a group, laughing quietly in the corner at bad jokes.
Then shining bright outside; averted eyes, wishing I was not there.

I know the feeling of hollow success, proving something to those that don’t really care. I needed them to care, not the success. Success was an attempt to be accepted, not a desire for success.

How empty the feeling was. Bittersweet, the taste of success, the bitter in my heart, the sweet in” look at me now.” That fuck you success.

The look of resentment from someone you love, when you shine bright, their jealousy. That pain would make me want to spend a lifetime being dull, unseen.

Sometimes I’m afraid to show off something I’m genuinely proud of—the forked tongue of jealousy, finding a way to dim the light, discovering shame in my pride.

They say comparison is the thief of joy.
When you compare yourself to others,

We don’t talk about the joy; drained when others compare themselves to you.

How others view themselves around me is not my responsibility.

I will take joy in the success of others, in the small and large.

I will be courageous in taking pride in my accomplishments. Not to prove to others, but to prove to myself, without fear of failure, but with a curiosity of success.

I’ve been contemplating the idea of enough. It started as an unworded feeling floating around, a seed in my mind and heart not ready to sprout.

Does anyone else get things, feelings that are not quite ideas yet? They have not come up from the soil of your subconscious. But it’s germinating there; you water it, feed it warmth and sunshine, until it arises as a sprout one day.

I’m still curious what this sprout of ‘enough’ will turn into, but it is a beautiful thing to grow in oneself. I see it growing in the feminine side that I am enough as a woman in body and spirit. The confidence is frightening. She will show up soon, the woman I’m scared yet to become. But what if she is also enough.

And with that choice comes a remarkable sort of freedom. The freedom to be still, to become aware and to stop hiding from the living that’s yet to be done.

To have enough is one part, to be satisfied with your haves and have nots. That is a great practice. But what if you are satisfied with who you are. You are enough. Satisfied with your progress and failures.

It is a little scary, the initial thought. What purpose do I have, what drives me, what propels me through life? What if I’m not better than so and so? I need to be better, more valued, more popular more liked. I want them to know who I am; they need to know how great I am—ego living in a world of comparison, terrified of losing relevance.

I am well aware of my progress from anger and the energy it gives. The progress I have made in feeling inadequate, a failure, the running I have done from my inner critic. The amazing things I have done to prove my worth to others.

I look back at the anger and jealousy, a thief to experiences. Joy clouded by the lingering thought, “well, if they could see me now,” Instagram these days makes sure they can—our world is seen through the eyes of thousands of watchers.

Enough, as I am, at every stage, content with the journey of becoming, unattached to the outcome. I am just becoming—self-betterment or progress as a curiosity about what can be done with my life. No more, I need, you need, I should, they will see and think.

Just an open what if?

I like me now; what if I like me, and I see if I can do this. What if I like myself and I fail. If success and failure don’t matter, you are enough; either way, see what amazing things can happen if you are so inclined; many are not easy, often painful, and often require a lot of work and discipline like most things worth doing require those things.

But funny how work and discipline make me feel better as a person, so that’s a plus. I’m not sure how we got it in our head that work always sucks. Honestly, it’s an incredible feeling.

How cool would it be if you pulled it all off? And if you fail, how cool were all the things you learned. So maybe armed with this new information, you try again—self-worth and value are not attached to these things.

But joy and pride in accomplishment, how much more you like yourself when you allow yourself to be curious about your potential. And put in the work to do it. 

When you walk upon death’s door, smiling, like, “oh man,” that was fun, look at all the cool shit I did, the incredible people I’ve met, and the tremendous impact I had on maybe no one. Death would look back and say, “you were enough the whole time, and you knew it, did it right, and lived for you.”

Labels, the identity we pick up, “That’s just how I am,” is not truly so. That’s just what I was told I was.
I can let that go. I don’t need to hold on to these.

I was following Brad up Pandora, it was getting pretty warm, as he tells me, “Spring has turned the heat lamp on too soon.'” We both feel the effects of global warming on the snowpack. The second winter in a row, spring heat feels too warm. Glomping is an issue, glomping is where your skins get a little wet and the snow stick to it, and suddenly you have 5 lbs of snow sticking to the bottom of your foot. If you rub wax on the bottom of your skins, it can prevent this, but it’s the most frustrating thing when it starts.

My mind often spins on these long uphill walks, gnawing on a piece of information; if the uphill goes for long enough, my mind shuts off, finding that peace of no thoughts. People refer to this state as ZEN- I think it is a reprieve. I meditate enough to know the difference between watching my thoughts and when my brain is too tired to do much. Both have a place, serving a purpose.

I have been mulling over my mother since my last post. Unsure of opening these doors and how to do it best.
My mother is a beautiful, fun woman, small, and always ready for whatever social occasion is afoot. I am pretty anti-social, preferring the company of nature, birds, and animals, listening to the wind and the trees. I am like my dad this way; I could spend hours collecting rocks, they could easily be my friends. Rocks do have much to teach a person. I might tell you what they say, one day, about acceptance and patience.

My relationship with my mom was not the easiest for me, and I don’t think she thought it comfortable either. Of course, she tried, but we are different people, and she usually dismisses anything she does not understand.
These days we are better, as I can help teach her how to react to me; she listens and tries her best.

I was in the middle of a kick turn, not exactly paying attention to my movements, my mind hit on the perfect description of my mother. She is a verbal bull in a china shop. She is opinionated in her world of right and wrong, black and white, a set in stone, finality. She does not think before she speaks and has little concern for the aftermath of her words. Assuming its other responsibility just to let it go. Or, in a perfect world, take on her assessment as truth and do as she would about whatever the topic is.
If anyone disagrees or has a counter opinion, she will label them as drama and dismiss them from her life until she forgets about the incident and goes back as if nothing ever transpired.

I remember my mother buying me everything I needed to learn how to decorate cakes. We made a tremendous mess in the kitchen with icings of all colors. I learned to make flowers, leaves, and all kinds of things. I ate too much frosting; it made me sick; I could not be around frosting for almost a year. I still get a little queasy when I see cupcakes with buttercream frosting. 

I remember the countless trips to the allergist where I would get shots to help me deal with my severe allergies. Then, she had to take me to the emergency room every so often when I reacted badly. I can’t imagine how scared she could have been all the little emergency room trips.
I remember hours learning about plants and flowers at the nursery and getting to pick some to plant in the yard; I would draw pictures of them later.

My barbie villages that would take up the whole living room for days must have driven her nuts with how immaculate the house was. My mom is still the only person I know that takes the screens out of the windows twice a year to clean them. Being a farmer’s daughter, I will say she knew how to work.

Thirteen years of little brown bag lunches, gram crackers with frosting, tuna, ham, peanut butter and jelly, all the crackers and snacks individually wrapped. My mom was great in all the things she did. But, these things are so complicated, muddied grey areas of emotions that are hard to separate, understand, and process.

My mom’s dad passed when she was 16; she started losing her hearing at about the same time. My mom does not talk much about it, but I can feel the pain, hurt, and sadness in her words when she does. My grandmother put on makeup and went out drinking at the VFW to dance the night away. My mom would say that as that’s how things went back then. Processing grief and fear and confusion by hiding it deep and putting on a smile, better to have fun; life is too short to dwell on these things. Put on your face and pretend it’s all happy. I think my mom internalized this as how you dealt with life’s hardships. That is her way, and that is the only way with my mom. It worked for her; it should work for everyone, black-white, problem solved. Don’t bring it up again; we have dealt with that, it is behind a door, and I’ve locked it. Let’s have martinis; her 4.11′ frame bounces off to find something more fun than the issue.

I know I can open those locked doors I have done it a few times. I have also learned that I’d rather leave them closed for her sake. I don’t like to see her hurt like that. Perhaps I’m a little jealous she can compartmentalize so well. I defiantly can’t. I wear my life on my sleeve.

Verbal bull in a china shop.
This is the hard part, where love gets confusing. Although I believe everyone has things hidden within their life and family that cause all kinds of issues, the most perfect of parents will raise kids that do not know how to handle the difficulties of real life. And they will be crushed the first time they feel rejection and failure. Blame their parents for not preparing them. That is the root of the millennial issue.
I am no longer upset, confused, or take any of the things my mother has said on. In learning to do that, I have learned to become my own woman, to create my own identity. I have learned to let go of others’ opinions and rely solely on my own.
I am grateful; it is a fantastic thing to be able to do. Finally, I learned to decide who I am and what I am capable of. By sheading the cloak of her labels of me.

I don’t think she is aware of what she has said to me; perhaps she was thinking out loud, being deaf maybe she thought I could not hear them.
But I absolve her from the responsibility of those names, words, and labels. I’m no longer angry, hurt or take them on.

That woman had her troubles and demons to fight. She was born in a generation where women had fewer choices. The life she lived was not of her will. All of that reflected her frustration, pain, and hurt. Yet, perhaps she was holding to freedom of speech. One of the only freedoms women have left in those generations; before that, I didn’t think women had even that. 

My mother did a fantastic job with what she had, and no one is perfect, as I don’t think we are meant to be. My mother set challenges in me that would later turn into my most significant revelations and triumphs. She laid a lot of dark in me, a path that took years to navigate, taking me on some of my life’s most amazing adventures.
She gave me many demos I had to fight, but it made me a great warrior of my mind. Coming out of the other side, I can rest in the light and love she has for me after battles are done. Grateful for all the great memories, and be appreciative for the harder ones. She made me stronger than you could imagine.

There is no need to unleash the words she has used. Those are a conversation for my mother and me, one day, or never, I can let it all go. I do not need to unleash that pain back on anyone. It serves no purpose. Those words did what they came into this world to do. To teach me, they are others projections, others pain and hurt frustrations and confusion. They are not me, and now I can see another person’s hurt, fear, and pain by what they put out in the world. And that s a special gift; my mom gave me.