Wild Cold

Oldman and I spent this past weekend up near Lake Placid - truck camping, snowshoeing, and ice climbing.  And guess what?  It was cold.





(I was considering ending the post there, because that pretty much sums it up, but I guess I'll write a bit more.  I'll probably even draw a life-metaphor-parallel to the cold and make the post all spiritually-inspiring and meaningful, like I do.  Lucky you.)

My goal for this winter was to learn how to ice climb.  Some friends from my backpacking group found out about this event called "Mountainfest" up the Adirondacks, where you get to take classes for a decent rate, demo all kinds of snow gear for free, and watch famous ice climbers give slide shows of their wicked crazy climbs.

I had been signed up for this event for months.  When I met Oldman, I invited him to join my friends and me, and he enthusiastically agreed.

Soon, one day of ice-climbing turned into a whole weekend up in the mountains.  And a shared hotel room with everyone soon turned into camping in the back of Oldman's truck with a complicated propane heater system that he rigged up.  This was to be an adventure for sure.

We drove nine hours on Saturday and made it just in time to meet up with our group, and hear a presentation by some ice climbers about their recent trek to the mountains of Pakistan.

After the presentation, we drove around the tiny town of Keene Valley, NY, looking for the perfect place to park the truck and camp for the night.  We found a place called Marcy's Field, which is a wilderness airstrip.  It's basically a huge field that was covered in snow, surrounded by nothing.  This meant no human lights.  This meant AMAZING stars.

We parked the truck and commenced setting up the heating system in the back.  It was 15 degrees below zero.  It was cold.

Soon, the heater was blazing and we were toasty warm under the blankets in the bed of the truck.  Before nodding right off to sleep, we took some time to stargaze.  We popped down just the tailgate of his truck and slid our heads out from the thermal curtain that hangs in the back to keep us warm at night.  With our bodies layered up and tucked snuggly inside the truck bed, our hat-covered heads peeked out into the night and watched shooting stars for 20 minutes.  It was magical.  All was right with the world.

Then, around 6:30am, the propane heater unexpectedly snapped off.  It must have frozen.  We figured, oh well, we were about to get up for the day anyway.  So we leisurely began putting on our layers and packing our daypacks for the day's activities.  We had no idea just how cold it was, or how quickly that cold would seep into our bones once the heat was gone.  Did I mention that it was 15 degrees below zero?

Within five minutes, the tips of our fingers were burning, and we could no longer move our hands.  Seriously.  We were at stage one of frostbite, and having a hard time even using the key to open the door and get into the cab.  It was scary, and very painful.  This was my first of many lessons this weekend in respecting the cold.

That day, we decided to take advantage of Mountainfest and demo some snowshoes on one of the many local trails.  But first, we needed breakfast.

We went to the Noon Mark Diner, whose hand-painted sign boasted all homemade food.  We headed straight for their bathrooms to brush our teeth, wash our faces, and change our clothes.  To my surprise, my Dr. Bronner's soap was frozen, as were my tube of hand cream and my body wipes, and pretty much everything else.  I sat on my hand cream all through breakfast to warm it up enough to use on my chapped hands.

After a hearty breakfast of homemade, whole wheat banana pancakes with locally-harvested maple syrup and sausage, we headed back out into the cold.

Our day snowshoeing was adventurous, to say the least.  We made it to the top of the mountain just in time to see the sun set, which was beautiful, and meant that we were going to have to snowshoe the whole way down in the dark.  Which, when I stopped being scared, was also beautiful.

That night in the truck was pretty similar to the night before - warm, cozy, exciting, and cut short by a frozen propane tank.  But this time, the night was 27 degrees below zero.  The second we heard it click shut at around 5am, we bolted out of bed and snapped into action.  Motivated by the pre-frostbite incident of the prior morning, we knew that we only had moments to get all of our layers on and get into the cab of the truck with the heat blasting.  We made it, but then had nowhere to go!  We drove back to the diner and sat in their parking lot with the heat on until they opened at 6am.

After another hearty breakfast spent sitting on our toiletries to warm them up enough to use, we headed to our ice-climbing class.  It was a lot of fun, and pretty hard work.  The guide told us that we were lucky to have some sun, and it even got as warm as 9 degrees outside!

It was an exhausting, exhilarating weekend.  I learned a lot from the cold.  I was reminded to move slowly- again and again and again.  I couldn't even "run" out to the car to get something I forgot without layering up and putting on hats and two pairs of gloves.  I couldn't scamper up the mountain like I usually do when hiking, because each step with snowshoes must be carefully considered.  And I certainly couldn't stomp my way up the ice with those pick axes and crampons - attention must be paid.

So as I write this post, I am grateful to the winter for these important lessons, grateful to Oldman and my backpacking friends for accompanying me on this adventure, and mostly, grateful for the warm bed where I sleep soundly each night.

Wild Snowboarding

That's not me.  But it's what I looked like for most of the night.

I was grateful to be invited to go snowboarding with Oldman and a bunch of his friends on Friday night.  It was a group of six dudes, all of whom have been snowboarding for between three and ten seasons now.  One of his friends owns a small bus (yes, a short bus), in which he drove us and our snowboards.

When we got to the mountain and were suiting up, one of the guys asked me, "So how long have you been snowboarding, Melanie?"

"I've never been on a snowboard in my life, actually.  Or a pair of skis.  Or to a ski resort." I answered truthfully.

His eyes widened a bit and his eyebrows raised.  "Well you've probably been on a skateboard at some point, right?  It' just like that."

"Nope.  Never been on a skateboard either."

Silence.

"Oh," he smiled an oh-god-I-didn't-realize-we-were-bringing-a-death-case-on-this-trip smile.  He lied, "I'm sure you'll be great," and walked away.

As expected, most of the night was filled with falling.  And falling.  And more falling.  I put the snowboard on my feet, tried to stand up, and fell.  After several attempts and a new strategy for standing (start from on all fours), I finally stood!  And then fell again.  The next hour was filled with wobbling and swaying and falling down the bunny hill.  Falling on my butt.  Falling on my hands.  Falling on my hip.  Falling on my knees.  Falling on my face.  And luckily, it was filled with a lot of laughter, too.

After about an hour and a half, I was finally ready to stand up for long enough to actually receive some snowboarding instruction from Oldman.  Ignorantly, I had thought that snowboarding was about standing pretty straight up on the board and just letting it carry you flatly down the hill, kind of like a standing sled.  I had no idea there was so much core-maneuvering, knee-bending, and tipping the board involved.

Oldman kept saying, "Bend your knees!"  Then,  "Tip back a bit until you're riding on the back edge of the board, not just flat."

"But it feels like I'm about to fall when I do that!  That's how you told me to fall safely, too!" I shouted back as I attempted his idea, and promptly fell on my butt.

"Exactly," he shouted as he hopped gracefully and patiently over to me on his board.  I was on my knees, with the board strapped to my feet behind me, panting, preparing to hop up and try again.  He was closer to me now and could speak without shouting.  "You're basically constantly falling.  That's what snowboarding is - finding the perfect balance between your body and the mountain.  But yeah, the motion is the same as falling - it's like you're in a freeze frame of falling the whole way down."

I shook my head and laughed at the ground, watching my breath come out in short bursts of steam in front of me.  "There's a metaphor in that," I said.

"Yeah yeah, you can write your blog later.  Get back up there, lady."

So snowboarding had an unexpected lesson in it.  You're basically constantly falling.  Unlike my ignorant imaginings, snowboarding is not a passive sport in which one stands on the board and shouts "Whee!" as they glide easily down the hill.  Even the professional, fancy-pants snowboarders are simply practicing the art of falling gracefully down the hill on the edge of their boards.

My life has felt the same way.  Every time I try to stand straight up, knees locked, looking proudly around and surveying my masterfully-planned existence, I fall.  And the falls hurt more from that far up.  Conversely, if I simply admit defeat and squat too far down, or allow myself to lose what I know is a healthy balance and flail madly around, grasping onto air - I still fall.

I guess the trick is admitting that, really, we're all just constantly falling.  The important part is to do it gracefully, and remember to laugh at yourself when you find your face flat on the snow - again.

Wildness Delayed

I've hit a bit of a funk.  Or a lot of a funk.

You know how when someone makes the decision to leave their job, they give two weeks notice?  You know how difficult and sometimes awkward those two weeks can be - going to work every day in the place that you and everyone you know knows you're leaving soon?  I think there is a reason that two weeks is the standard time allotted for this business.  Two weeks, and no longer.

Imagine how it might feel for that two weeks notice to be 10 months notice.

As all of you readers know, I went on a transformative road trip out west last summer for a month, living out of my car, my tent, and in the homes of strangers.  I backpacked with grizzlies, bathed in rivers, and gazed at the brilliant night sky as it can only be seen that far from human lights.  At about week three, it became quite clear to me that this needed to be my life, instead of just my vacation.  I knew in my core that I had reached the end of my time in Maryland.  I knew this in the middle of August, 2011.

I had already signed a contract for the upcoming school year, not only as a teacher, but as Head of the Middle School.  As much as every cell in my body was screaming to be allowed to stay out west and not return to the traffic-filled rat race that is the D.C. Metro area, I just couldn't bring myself to back out of that contract at such late notice.  I love my students.  I respect my boss.  And. . . I needed the money.

I held off giving my official notice until the end of October, because I wanted to be sure that I really, really wanted this before getting everyone going on a job search.  But I knew in my heart from the first day of school, that this would be my last year in Maryland, and my last year in a classroom (at least one with four walls).

In the beginning of the year, I was sentimental and teary about a lot of what we did.  My last first day of school, my last camping trip to Catoctin with the students, my last Halloween parade, etc.  I was grieving in a healthy way; letting go slowly of something that has been an influential part of my life for the past seven years.  Appreciating each aspect, then kissing it and sending it off into the breeze.

Then winter break happened.  Oldman and I took an adventurous, 16-hour road trip down to New Orleans to visit his family.  We slept in his truck.  We hiked.  We explored new places in this country for both of us.  I felt that familiar, crazy freedom of allowing myself to blow with the wind.  I saw the lines of the road disappear underneath me mile by mile, and I wanted to just keep going, and going, and going. . .

And now I'm back at work.  Getting up at 6:30am every day, before even the sun (which no one should ever have to do - if the sun is sleeping, so should you!!).  Working eight to ten hour days.  Handing daily crises.  Discussing curriculum.  Proofreading documents.  And I just don't give a damn.

Please don't misunderstand.  I love the school where I work.  I believe in it.  I think it is filled with curious students and inspiring teachers, all doing work that really matters in the world.  I am nothing short of grateful and honored to have worked there for seven years.  And I'm done now.

• When I realize that I need a haircut, I usually make an appointment for that same day, because once it is clear that it must happen, it must happen immediately.  
• When Oldman and I decided that we were leaving Louisiana the next day, within an hour, we had pushed our starting time up to right after dinner that night; deciding to drive through the night instead.  Once we knew our leaving was imminent, we figured - let's get it on.
• In reading The Grapes of Wrath, the Joad family did the same thing.  As soon as they decided they would pack up and leave for California the next day, everyone got antsy and decided to pack the truck and leave immediately, taking shifts driving and sleeping through the night.
• When our eighth-graders know what high school they're going to, they begin to lose motivation to be at our school - "senioritis," if you will.  It's not that they are bad kids or hate our school, they just realize that they're done, and they can see their next destination in sight.

The night before my first day returning to work after winter break, I slept in an awful fit.  I was so stressed at the thought that I tossed and turned and ground my teeth all night.  This is an old habit that I haven't done since college.  But I ground my teeth all night, and woke up with a swollen jaw muscle so fat that I haven't been able to close my jaw completely or chew since Monday.  I've been gumming and tonguing soft foods and juices for six days now.  I'm hungry and tired all the time, because it takes too much effort to eat.

This jaw injury is a great teacher for me.  It is reminding me to slow down.  It is reminding me what happens to my body when I don't remain balanced; when I allow stress and worry to overtake me.  Every time I forget and accidentally bite down on a piece of food, a sharp lightening rod of pain jolts up my face and into my ear, screaming "Stop!  Slow down!  Be here!"

I'm not sleeping well.  I'm not eating well.  I'm not smiling a whole lot.  And I'm pretty unmotivated to do much of anything.  I guess I'm depressed.

I honestly don't know how I'm going to do the rest of this year.  I was going to wait to write this blog entry until I was at the other end of the tunnel.  That way, I could write "I had been depressed, but then I realized blah blah blah, and now I'm happy and have it all figured out again."  But I'm not there yet.  I'm right in the middle of the stink, not sure where to go next.  I'm sitting at the window, gazing out at the big mountains that I know lie miles and miles beyond 495, not feeling very wild at all.

Wild Purging

This holiday season has been filled with purging for me.  No, not of Christmas cookies - of belongings.

I had already planned to get rid of most of what I owned in June when I move west, but I have begun "purging: round one" as I slowly move out of my farmhouse and in with Oldman.  I'm keeping only what I absolutely need between now and June.  Everything else is either getting sold, given away, or tossed.

I was excited to get rid of excess . . AND I was quite surprised at all of the attachment I found when letting an object slip out of my hands for the last time.  I couldn't believe how hard it was for me to let some things go.  But when I began to look at all I owned in terms of what is valuable enough for me to put in the back of a truck and drive across the country, all of a sudden I was willing to let a lot more go.  Things I had kept around "just in case. . ." or "because maybe one day what if. . ." or for "oh remember when. . ." suddenly looked like unnecessary baggage weighing me down.

Things that have passed on from my possession, in some form or other:

• The set of little, ceramic statues of a mariachi band from my honeymoon in Oaxaca, Mexico.  
• All ten seasons of "Friends" on DVD.  
• An old Hofbrau House beer stein from my dad's time in Germany.
• The set of knitting needles I once thought I might learn how to use.
• The shelf of my super-all-time-favorite fiction books (Poisonwood Bible, Ishmael, 100 Years of Solitude, Red Tent, Life of Pi, Anne of Green Gables, etc.)
• Two baskets full of half-used shampoo, lotion, and other toiletries
• All of my board games (Taboo, Scattergories, Balderdash, Trivial Pursuit, etc.)
• Several pieces of past Halloween costumes (a pair of wooden, 7", platform heels with glitter, a rainbow mohawk wig, a grass skirt and coconut bra, etc.)
• All of my eyeshadow (it's been literally years since I've put any on. . . I don't think I remember how)
• My five and three pound dumbbells 
• My GIANT book of astrology

In the end, it felt pretty great to take eight garbage bags to the dump, not including the three I took to the thrift shop, or all of things I gave away to friends and family.  However, I couldn't help but take this opportunity to ponder . . .

Why do we humans feel the need to surround ourselves with THINGS?  Other animals don't do that.  You don't see a bear setting up a little coffee table with books and a shelf with knick-knacks in her den.  You don't find a bird tucking souvenirs from all the flights she has ever taken into her nest to pull out later and reminisce.  And you certainly don't find ants hanging pictures and curtains up in their anthill.

Are my set of favorite paperback fiction books and my little statues from Mexico me?  Who am I without them?  Who was I before them?  Why have I kept them around?

I have been listening to The Grapes of Wrath on audiobook in the car lately.  I just got to the chapter when the Joad family is forced to take every last absolutely non-essential belonging into town and sell it, in preparation for their journey west, out of the dust bowl, during the Great Depression.

Tom Joad ponders some very similar topics in a beautiful, long paragraph that begins with "Who are we without our pasts?" and ends with the emphatic decision:  "Leave it.  Burn it."

I've taken your advice, Tom.  I'll see you soon out in the wide open west.

Wild New Orleans

All I have ever seen on TV or in movies about New Orleans is hurricanes.  Like all of us, I have seen endless images of destruction and devastation.  And I have wondered, why do people choose to continue living here?  Is it not obvious that the sea is trying to reclaim this city?  Perhaps people don't belong here at all, unless they are traveling through on a swamp boat or catching shrimp to take back to some more stable land.

And then I finally visited the place myself.

It was a 75 degree, sunny day when Oldman and I decided to venture into New Orleans.  We took his mom's car just as far as St. Charles Street, where we parked and took the trolley.  The sunbeams reached into our open windows and the breeze felt more like May than December.

Before hopping onto the trolley, we couldn't help but stop at a little, psychedelic creperie/hippie shop near Loyola University.  We ate fresh crepes stuffed with mozzarella cheese, spinach, bacon, and tomatoes, then bought way too much incense at the hippie shop next door.  Before leaving, Oldman noticed that the stucco wall had a few grips, and the climber part of his brain went a little wild.  That boy will try to climb anything.

The trolley ride took us down St. Charles Street, past telephone wires and trees draped with endless, faded beads from years of Mardi Gras, past elaborate houses with two and three stories of wrought iron porches, past little shacks selling po-boys, gumbo, and jambalaya.

We hopped off the trolley in the French Quarter, and found ourselves on Bourbon Street.  In short, it was gross.  Block after block of sleazy sex shops and people drunk in the middle of the day kind of made us want to turn around and go home.  Luckily, Bourbon Street was not indicative of New Orleans as a whole, and we soon found some more appealing neighborhoods.

We wandered into what must have been the art district, and marveled at colorful local art and sculptures.  We stopped to hear a tune from a street musician with a kazoo and steel string guitar.  On the next block, more street performers - a five piece string band caked with dirt and facial hair, playing their hearts out with their trusty hound dog by their side.

We wandered into a very high brow antique store and gaped at the intricately carved pool tables, carousel horses, and a library with dark, oak shelves filled to the brim with tattered tomes inches thick.  We took silly pictures and stuck out from the stuffy, rich folks who strutted from case to case.

We visited Cafe Du Monde for the obligatory coffee and beignets.  It was crowded and touristy, and the beignets were really just funnel cake in a different shape.  But while there, we met Nadine - a waitress whom we found crying out back.  Upon further inquiry, we discovered that she is here from South Africa, working on her summer break.  She was crying because she had $220 stolen from her, which is the equivalent of three months rent back home.  We reminded her of what a blessing it is to be reminded that all is temporary, and monetary possessions can slip through our fingers at any moment.  We talked for awhile, until she was laughing and wiping away her tears.  We left her with a reminder of her beauty, strength, and wholeness - with or without $220.

To take a breather from the city, we walked up the levee to the bank of the Mississippi.  We sat watching the shrimp boats and steamboats glide lazily down the wide river, and shivered at the cool breeze coming off the water.

Upon recommendation from two men in a vintage shop, we trekked several blocks for dinner at a place called Adolfo's.  The bottom floor was a dark dive bar that already had live music playing at 5pm.  Since the upstairs dining room didn't open for half an hour, we ordered a locally brewed IPA and sat down to listen to the jazz singer/songwriter and his drummer drawl out some tunes.  An old woman sat up front, cigarette hanging from one hand, tambourine in the other, eyes closed.  She sipped her drink (whisky, I think) and hit that tambourine against the table as she bobbed her head to the music.  Was she in the band?  Is everybody?

When we finally took our growling bellies upstairs for dinner, we found a tiny Italian/Creole restaurant with checkered tablecloths and candlelight.  A brusque Italian waiter with a thick accent told us the specials and brought us some of the most delicious garlic bread I have ever tasted.  Even my Chinese, non-bread-eating boyfriend asked for seconds.  We started with a crab and corn cannelloni - a house creation recommended by our waiter.  Then Oldman had crusted tilapia topped with crawfish and shrimp in a cream sauce that he said was the best fish he had ever eaten.  I had alfredo pasta brimming over the bowl with plump, pink, fresh shrimp.

The day had been so perfect.  We only wanted one more thing.  Live music.  But where to find it?  We stepped outside of our restaurant and our ears were immediately filled with jazz from every direction.  We looked at each other and laughed.  Letting our ears be our guide, we followed the music into a place across the street, where we found a raised stage draping with Christmas lights.  A tall guitarist with a swath of dramatic hair across his forehead crooned out jazz tunes, while an adorable girl with too-short bangs sat singing harmony and playing the washboard, and a short fella with a fedora and a white buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves played the upright bass in the back.  We stayed for six songs and one beer, bought their record, and left for the next destination.

Letting our ears be our guide again, we glided down the street into a club with hopping brass music spilling exuberantly out the open door onto the street.  As we walked tentatively inside, a waiter was just placing an additional table for two right up front; he smiled and motioned for us to sit down - best seat in the crowded house!  This band was bouncing with energy and included a clarinet, trumpet, bass sax, guitar, drums, and sousaphone.  We ordered two rum punches and drank until we were hopping in our seats to the music and our faces were warm and red.

Exhausted and completely blissed out, we tore ourselves away and began the long trek back to the trolley stop.  On our way, we ran into two, voluntarily homeless bohemians sitting in folding chairs with typewriters on their laps and signs that read "POETRY ON DEMAND."  I stopped and inquired.  The man, who had a red turtleneck, brown corduroy jacket, and a thick French accent said, "You give me a topic, and I write a poem for you.  If you like it, you pay whatever you like."

We asked our new friend, Antoine, to write us a poem about wild travel.  Here is what we got:

Wild Travel

we want our roots

to spread across borders

sneaking

    gently

         into their minds

we will be friends

for a second

          for a week

if you care

we'll travel you

with our hopes and questions

we'll enter your home

and call it ours

and you won't mind

cause you know 

we love you

Falling asleep on Oldman's shoulder on the trolley ride home, I thought back to my question about why anyone would want to live in this city, and I smiled a knowing, sleepy smile.  This place is bursting at the seams with music and don't-give-a-damn life, and gorgeous days like this could make anyone forget about hurricanes.

Wild Newness

Fun fact about Oldman (my heretofore blog name for my boyfriend, because using real names on the internet weirds me out a bit.  He has the nickname of Oldman from a friend of his due to his ancient-feeling wiseness, and also because he can get cranky and jaded and complain about crazy young kids.): I am his first girlfriend.

What?  Yep.  You read that correctly.  I am Oldman's first relationship.   As you can imagine, this information was a red flag at first.  My over-thinking girl-brain ran through all the things that could be wrong with him.  I pictured bags of toenail clippings stored under his bed, strange habits of eating toothpaste or hoarding pet lizards, or membership to some kooky cult.  I quickly realized that none of those things were true.  I don't really have a good explanation.  I guess he's been quite shy in the past, and picky, and for whatever reason, it just never happened.  Whatever.  Who cares.

After my over-thinking girl-brain relaxed and I allowed myself to be in the present with him, it became quickly apparent what a PLUS this is!  No crazy exes to deal with (and if you know me, you know I've had more than my share for several lifetimes).  No falling in love with Oldman just to hear him say, "Actually I just realized I'm still in love with my ex-girlfriend/fiancee/whatever."  (Which is what I heard from the last three guys I dated before him.)  No relationship baggage whatsoever.

And he's not a 17 year-old who is just dating for the first time and making all of the necessary, sloppy mistakes.  He's a grown man with a life full of experience and wisdom, and 30 years of pent up chivalry just waiting to be unloaded on some lucky girl.  You better believe every door gets opened, every chair pulled out, and every heavy bag carried - and that's just skimming the surface of the way he tends to me.  (This is very new for a "strong, independent woman" like me - whatever that means.  Screw it.  I'm drinking it up.)

But the best part about this relationship thing being new for him is that it has become new for ME.  I think this may have been the only way that my jaded, run-through-the-wringer heart could have possibly looked at romance without a scowl.  It feels like I'm taking him to a city where I've been a hundred times before, and seeing all the sights with new eyes through his wonder.

I had no idea how many stories I had built up around relationships.  I had so many certitudes about what love was and was not, what being a boyfriend or a girlfriend was or was not, what being in a relationship meant or meant not.   (Certitude: a story that has been held for so long in one's mind that it has become unquestioned Truth.)  One by one, without even trying, he is blasting them away.

On our road trip down to Louisiana to visit his parents this week, I played some of my songs for him.  I have a few scratch recordings of songs I have written over the past several years, most of them inspired by some kind of pain in my life.  I guess I felt obligated to play them for him, and then to tell him the related stories of pain from my past.

As I was telling them, I could feel a knot growing in my throat.  My body was saying to me, "Stop.  Do you really need to tell these stories again?  Are they even true anymore?"  But I kept talking, spilling out all of my "And then this awful thing happened to me and blah blah blah."

I wanted to stop myself, but I couldn't.  It was like I was on autopilot.  I had convinced myself that he couldn't really know me without knowing these stories.  But that's like saying that the stories are me, and obviously they're not.  They just abstract words to describe past phenomenon.  And I see now how in the re-telling, I cause more pain to myself and to the listener.

He listened intently and patiently, saying nothing, holding my hand, rubbing my back, etc.  After a long period of silence after the stories were finished, he said, "I love who you are today.  Let's you and I take our long-held stories of past pain and not tell them anymore.  No more tragedy.  Let's write new stories together.  Let's start now."  Everything in my body relaxed, and the knot in my throat disappeared.

So I have been thinking about stories and certitudes, and how easy it is to allow them to define your life.  And I pose this question to you, dear readers: What stories are you dragging around behind you, convinced that they define who you are?  What old stories are limiting the boundaries of who you could be growing into today?  Perhaps it is time to stop writing tragedies.  Perhaps this holiday season, the best gift you could give to yourself is permission to be a new you, every day, and every day, and every day again.

Wild, Unexpected Love

Many of you faithful readers told me how much you enjoyed reading my mantox post.  I enjoyed writing it as well.  My mancation brought feelings of strength and wildness.  It helped me to remember who I am and taught me new things about myself.  It helped me to regain my dignity and find the gems in the messy past few years.

The longer I was single, the longer I wanted to be single.  I became intoxicated with being the owner of my life.  I had no one to answer to, no one to interfere with my agenda, no one to need anything from me.  I got quite used to be being un-vulnerable.  I was hyper-focused on moving west at the end of this school year.  I had no time for dating or even thinking about men.  I made it quite clear to the universe that there will be no falling in love while I am still on the East Coast.  Nothing was going to get in the way of my plan.

Then I met Johnny.  And the universe laughed.

I climbed with him at the rock-climbing gym, matched somewhat at random by a belay partner-finding website of which we are both a part.  Now mind you, I have climbed with several random people in the past year, mostly men, many attractive.  I have not paid any of them any mind other than to keep me safely on the climbing wall.  But Johnny was different.  He told me that he had taken a transformative road trip out west earlier this year, and so was planning to move west now and follow a life of adventure. Whoa.  Get outta my head.

We became friends on Facebook after that night, exchanged travel photos and stories, and shared inspirations over the internet.  The next time we climbed together, we shut down the climbing gym talking.  Then we went to get tea at a diner, and shut down the diner.  We talked for five hours until 3:30am.  This was not looking good for my mancation my friends.  Not looking good at all.

BUT!  He was leaving for Utah in a week, so there was no danger.  Right?  Right?  I opened myself up to him.  I allowed myself to become vulnerable in a way that I haven't done in a long, long time.  I did this because I thought he was leaving.  I thought it would be safe; I could fulfill a small need to be intimately connected with someone without having the pain and inevitable heartache of a relationship.  One week of long talks and long walks and then I'd send him off into the sunset with a custom-made mix CD.  A modern day tragic romance.  It would be perfect.

Then I left for PA over Thanksgiving, and when I got back, he was still here.  He was not leaving.  And it had a lot to do with me.  Shit.  Fear was my first response.  I felt my throat tightening and my shoulders rising up in tension.  I can't do this again.  Relationships mean sacrificing part of myself.  They mean pain and disappointment and never-ending compromise.  It's not worth it.  Why didn't he leave?!  He was supposed to leave!  I have plans!  I have it all figured out!  There's no room for a man!  Right?  Right?


He listened to these fears.  He heard them, acknowledged them, and then he blew them up like so many dandelions on a windy day.  He scattered them with one breath.  All of my carefully-constructed reasons and defenses that had taken 15 years and a dozen relationships to build up simply imploded.  No ceremony.  No drama.  Those stories of fear simply had no place to live anymore.

I have been spending my days and nights (which are all blending into one at this point) floating around in a serotonin haze.  Everything is fresh.  There is an newness where I was sure all was dead.  I feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast, when she walks through the town to bouncy music and everyone sings and greets her.  I feel like Snow White when she walks through the forest and all the animals follow her.  I feel like Cindarella when she enters the ballroom and everything else falls away as she sees the prince.  I am stilly, stupid, corny, ridiculous in love (if you can't tell from my completely embarrassing and uncharacteristic princess metaphors).

I have written and rewritten this post many times.  I have deleted many versions of this story and am still not satisfied with the way it is written.  There seems to be no way to adequately write things like this.  There is no clever quip I can use to explain how this feels.  Also, there is a bit of hesitation in writing about love.  Why?  I have no hesitation writing about my glorious singlehood.  Why not my glorious love?

In the end, I decided to publish it for a few reasons.  This blog is about a journey to wildness.  I write about living wildly and uncaged here in the hopes of inspiring others to find that wild part in themselves; to step outside of the daily comforts of cars and offices and shopping malls and push their limits.  I would be hypocritical if I didn't admit that opening up to love again is my limit.  I can climb to the top of a mountain or hang from a precarious rock face without batting an eye (ok, maybe batting an eye a bit), but jumping into love and giving another person permission to know me in this way - well, you might as well throw me out into the middle of the ocean and leave me to the sharks.

I write this because I want to declare that I am choosing courage, and extend a hand for you to do the same.  I am choosing to live in a world where all things can become new, and love is always enough.