The Hardest Freedom
This past week I’ve been reading and thinking about the meaning of freedom. Folks are talking about freedom of speech, of being able to live without working, freedom to do what they want, when they want.
Circumstances aside, it seems to me that, our biggest need for freedom is from our negative thoughts and limiting beliefs.
From the outside it may seem like I live the ultimate free life — I have wheels underneath me and can travel wherever I choose, I work for myself so I can set my own hours and rates, I don’t have children or elders who I need to take care of. It is just me and Laddy and what do I want to do with my life.
And yet, I sometimes find myself struggling with my own self-defeating thoughts. I fall into worry about finances, I stress about generating new business. I fret about what I want to eat for dinner.
And all of this negative mind chatter is anything but freedom.
Last week, after mucking around in a week of worry, I watched this video and was reminded how much power those negative thoughts have.
As soon as I realize how uncomfortable I was, how stressed I really felt, I reminded myself that the real freedom is in choosing a new thought, shifting to a different perspective, telling myself a different story.
I stood in the river and let the water carries my worries away. Then I sat down with my pen and paper and imagined life without struggle.
I remembered that changing my language about any given situation is the truest kind of freedom of speech. And I crafted a new affirmation that supports a life of ease and joy, effortlessness and abundance.
And it worked. The stress dissipated, I was breathing deeper. I found myself smiling and admiring a dragonfly hovering near me. I even knew what I wanted to eat for dinner.
And the next morning, passive income from one of my Mac video training programs appeared in my checking account, a beautiful reminder that I am financially, emotionally and spiritually supported so that I can continue to do my best work, and that the Universe is cheering me on.
Even if I don’t know what that work is, or where the money is coming from, I feel space open up for those answers to show up.
I remind myself that I don’t have to know the how’s, I simply have to hold the vision of me being my best self, happy, content, connected, and engaged in good work. And in that calming, I am paying more attention, noticing new opportunities and daring to dream even bigger.
It sounds hokey, maybe, but it works.
I invite you to watch the video interview with Marc Allen and try it for yourself.
[ssba]How to Walk in the River
It is my last full week here in Asheville, NC. Next Wednesday I begin the journey westward. And so it is a balancing of staying present and planning forward, without getting too far ahead of myself.
I am consciously choosing to get my feet in the river every day, to connect with the energy of the moving water, to do my modified sun salutations and to practice my river walking skills.
Walking in the river is not like walking on pavement, or even sand. The bottom is uneven. There are hidden rocks, and they are slippery with slimy moss. And so you have to take a small, sturdy step and then pause, plant your foot and make sure you are stable. Then you can step your other foot to find another secure landing. River walking is slow. Purposeful. You have to be fully present.
I wear sturdy water shoes. I even bought a new pair, since I bought my old ones when I moved to the CA beach, almost 3 years ago. My new Keen sandals, are purple. They have great Velcro straps, a rubber toe and a ½” thick sole so I don’t have to worry about my tender-bottomed feet stepping on something sharp on uneven. And the rubber soles gives me a flat landing, no matter where I step.
The first few times I went into the river, I only walked in as far as I could see the bottom. Then I followed the dappled path of sunlight on the water, moving further into the current, up to my knees. I scooted my foot along the bottom, feeling for my next step, until I was in up to my thighs. I squatted to get my whole bathing suited body wet, and it felt amazing. The water was cool on my skin as it pushed against me. I had to stay strong and balanced so I wouldn’t fall over.
Last week I finally floated in the river. I was watching my neighbor play in a 30 foot section of water in front of the beach and it looked so easy and so fun that I put on my bathing suit and joined her. She said she preferred going on her back, facing forward so she can see where she’s going. She said to aim for the rocks, two black triangular boulders that formed a seven-foot-wide breaker in the river.
I sat in the water and my body was immediately lifted by the current. I was moving and floating and it was marvelous. We floated together twice more and then she left. I was only going to float once more by myself, and then I decided it was safe enough to stay alone.
I did the float a few more times, then found a place against the big rocks where I could lie on my back in the water, my feet barely touching the rock, and I could float without get swept into the current. But if I moved slightly to the right or left, I had to quickly grab hold of the rock to keep from drifting away.
And then I found a spot, right in between. I held onto two rocks in the water below me as the current moved around me. My shoulders were back and relaxed, my heart lifted and open. I loosened my hands on the rocks beneath me until it was just my index fingers holding me, and then I let go altogether, and I was the tip of the current and the water was swirling around me, diverging around my head and my shoulders and my legs and the rock, and I was the river, and the sky was blue above me through the bright green leaves and there was a cloud, heart-shaped, I swear, drifting right across my sightline.
I closed my eyes and floated, untethered, so aware that I was not floating in the safety of Marika’s swimming pool, but here, with myself, on the wild French Broad River.
It is moments like these when I am so acutely aware of being part of something so much bigger than myself. Something I need to remember when I fall into feeling lonely.
Last night Cody and I took a much-later-than-usual evening walk around the campground. The sun was setting pinkish-red behind the mountains to the northwest and a little bit of color seeped into the sky above the river. In all this time, it was my first sunset. On the walk back home, a firefly flew right up to the bright green shape on the front of my t-shirt, hovered, lit up, then flew away.
Even though I have been here since the middle of May, every day I notice something new. The patterns in the thick moss on the stone cottage roof. The way the river curves at both ends of the campground, so that I can only see this much. How the fuzzy yellow baby Canadian geese have grow into juveniles in their black and white summer plumage.
I have moments that I think I haven’t done ENOUGH while I’ve been here, that I SHOULD HAVE been getting in the water all along and watching the sun set every night.
And then I breathe, and look at the river and wonder how I can motivate myself to just get my feet wet. As if on cue, Cody gets up from his bed, jaws his ball, then drops it down the steps in front of the door. I put on my purple water shoes and we head down to the water for our favorite game.
He stands on the beachy bank of the river next to a tree stump and drops the ball onto the exposed roots that lead to the river. The ball bounces and rolls into the slow moving water and he watches as the ball floats in the current towards where I am standing, ankle-deep in the river. I retrieve it, rinse it off and throw it onto the sandy beach. He runs, grabs it out of the sand, squishes it between his teeth a few times, then drops it back on the tree roots. It bounces and floats. He watches. I pick it up, swish it in the water, then throw it for him to retrieve again.
Between throws I practice my forward bends, my hands planted in the rocky river bed, my legs long and stretching, the back of my heart open to the sky. But I can’t stay in the pose too long or I will miss the ball floating past me.
We play like this, again and again, at his pace, both of us totally present and engaged, until he lies down with the ball in the sand. Then I sit on my sitting rock, my feet still in the moving water, and I say thank you.
What a gift I have given myself, all of this time here in this beautiful place. I am so grateful for the people I know and love here, who have made this time so rich and rewarding. I am grateful for the work I am able to do while I am here, and for the new paths that are opening up for me.
I only have the first week of my western route planned and, so far, that feels OK. I’m going to journey west as if I’m walking in the river, one sure step at a time, as far as I can feel, following the sun and the sky.
[ssba]The View From Here
I am still in Asheville, North Carolina, camped along the glorious French Broad River. I am so grateful that this stretch of river is wide, and that I can see so much sky.
I’ve been renting a car so it’s easier to run errands, meet people, and explore some places around Asheville without having to worry about Cody and parking.
It’s been great. So great that I rented the car for a second week and will probably do a third. Because it’s freedom. There have even been a few days that I didn’t even go anywhere. But knowing that I can if I want to, has been so stress relieving.
One by one, I’ve been eliminating all stressors and distractions, settling into being in this beautiful place to make space for what is coming. And of course, with all of that letting go, things got uncomfortable.
Last week, two of my friends were out of town and it was a quiet work week, so I had a lot of time to be with myself and my thoughts. Yes, I had a car, but I didn’t have the desire to go exploring alone. And besides, driving on those curving mountain roads in a subcompact rental car was not very fun, and I still had no sense of direction because everything, all around, looks the same.
I’m a western gal, accustomed to five lanes on a city street and even more on the freeways. You can see for miles and know exactly where you are, based on certain landmarks. Here, in this southern mountain town, I was beginning to feel a little closed in. Especially when the only way to see the sky is to look directly up.
People suggested I drive up to the Blue Ridge Parkway so I could experience the magnificent vista of mountains and sky as far as I could see.
But I have an aversion to high altitude overlooks. The vastness makes me queasy and un-easy. Looking down makes me feel like I am falling. So a mountaintop vista was not was I was looking for.
Instead, I drove south of Asheville to visit the Carl Sandburg Historical Site. It was beautiful and interesting, but mostly I cried. I was still in the forest of trees and mountains, and, even though there are a hundred shades of green, it is all green, only green, and hardly any sky.
I’m sure it was also hormones and loneliness and not knowing what is next on this journey.
When I got home I started spinning into the future. Should start planning my trip west? What was I doing after my big training job in Phoenix? Am I heading back to CA? Should I continue up the coast to finally visit the San Juan Islands? Should I apply to be a camp host/tour guide at a lighthouse in Oregon in October? Was I going to have to stay parked in Marika’s driveway until I had a plan?
I had this need to know where I was headed, but, as much as I tried to plan something, nothing was jelling.
So I stepped back, and returned to being here.
I asked myself, what am I doing more of now that I didn’t do before. And what am I NOT doing now that I WAS doing before. And I realized I’d been sitting and watching more TV, and I hadn’t been stretching or doing my simple yoga poses. With all of the rain, we were walking less, and it had been three days since I had stood in the river.
So I put on my bathing suit and purple water shoes and walked into the water. I practiced my forward bends, planting my hands in the rocky river bed, feeling myself supported and stable, even with the rush of water passing over me. And I breathed.
And something released inside of me. I don’t have to know what I’ll be doing in September and October. I only need to plan as far as I can feel, trusting that each step will lead to the next.
And of course, as soon as I relaxed into this thought, new opportunities presented themselves. I booked two internet radio show interviews and a paid speaking gig appeared in Memphis, Tennessee.
Often, we think we need to keep pushing through to figure things out, that we have to be tenacious and stick with it to make something happen. Or else we have failed.
But usually, when we are in that place of stuckness, the best next action step is to simply pause and breathe. Step back for some perspective and reconnect with the basics: what do you really want, and how do you want to feel.
I wanted to feel spacious, open, ready for this next big thing. I wanted to feel the thrill of doing something that was new and exciting. I wanted the momentum of doing something in my physical body to propel the rest of my being into this amazing state of Yes.
In the past few weeks I’ve had several opportunities to go to that kind of thrill edge – riding my bike on a narrow winding mountain road without a bike lane, kayaking down the fast-moving, rock-strewn French Broad River. Someone even asked if I wanted to go zip-lining in the trees. And while each of these activities would have challenged my physical body, they felt extreme. Dangerous. Too edgy.
But I had to do something because the experience of being in the thick trees, unable to see anything beyond what was right in front of me was getting too uncomfortable, literally and figuratively.
And then I had to laugh. Of course I had to challenge my fear of big, wide vistas. I had to go to the top of the mountain.
While I was quietly contemplating where and when to do this, a friend suggested we have lunch at the Pisgah Inn, near the top of Mt. Pisgah, a 5700-foot peak along the Blue Ridge Parkway.
I even drove. The road wasn’t nearly as tight and windy as the mountain roads that I’m used to in Arizona. And because I was driving, I had my eyes on the road, not the sides of the two-lane highway, lined on both sides by towering green trees.
There was a series of short, un-illuminated tunnels that cut through the mountain. The sign said to turn your headlights on. Still, the first tunnel was a surprise. It was total darkness except for my own car’s headlights. It was a little scary, not being able to see very far in front of me, but by the third one, I was actually enjoying the thrill of driving in the dark.
The view from the Mt. Pisgah Inn was incredible. Even with the clouds, I could see so many layers of mountain ranges stretched across the horizon line. I stepped up to the railing and looked out. Nothing in my body was freaking out. Instead it felt like a big, deep breath of open space, and beauty, and possibility.
Listen to some recent interviews:
Ruth talks with Erica Harey-Butcher about getting un-stuck and taking action on Catch Good health blogtalkradio.
Ruth joins Janice Plado Dalager and Kim Pottle Hancock on the Middle of Nowhere podcast.
Read an interview with Vicky White of The Spacious Life about my life on the road.
[ssba]The Pull of a Strong Tide – a Father’s Day story
My dad wore a hot pink shirt to my Bat Mitzvah when men were still mostly wearing only white button downs.
Because this coming Sunday is Father’s Day, I wanted to share a story about my dad. Growing up, he was a playmate, an advocate, and always, a big supporter of whatever I have wanted to do and be. My dad will be 85 this September. He still lives in his own home, drives, shops, cooks, and he even has a girlfriend! I’m so grateful to still have him in my life.
For most of my childhood, my family lived on Long Island, the fish-shaped peninsula east of New York City. In sticky summer traffic it was an hour’s drive to Jones Beach.
Weekdays, when my mother took us, we went to the bay. At low tide I could wade out for practically a mile and the water never got higher than my bikini-bare waist. Far, far out, the bottom finally dropped to where I could stretch my feet to tippy toes, tilt my chin back and still be able to breathe.
Even on the brightest day, the water was a thick, murky brown. I kept my eyes closed underwater and wore nose plugs and did the Dead Man’s Float until I or my brother came up first, gasping and losing.
My mother stayed on the beach, watching us from the shade of the blue and white striped beach umbrella, guarding our towels and eyeglasses and the Styrofoam cool chest, filled with green grapes and ready peaches and my uneaten ketchup and corned beef sandwich.
On weekends and holidays when my father came along, we went to the ocean. He body-surfed through the waves with me, to just before where the big ones were breaking. When the wall of water whitecapped in front of us, he’d squeeze my hand and yell “Jump!” and we’d both push up off the pebble-shell bottom, taking deep breaths, just in case.
Sometimes I’d stand on his t-shirted shoulders so he could toss me into a high breaker. Once, instead of diving through the cresting water, I somersaulted too many times under the pounding swells. My head banged into someone else’s legs. Gritty salt water stung my eyes and flooded my nose.
I came up for air just as another wave crashed, but I couldn’t stand up because my bathing suit top had slipped up. I ducked back underwater and pulled my top down as the wave roared over me. When I finally resurfaced, my father was standing there laughing, a clump of seaweed stringing from his glasses.
[ssba]From Passage to Active
In January, I chose Passage as my guiding word for the year. Based on the acronym that Reverend Tinker shared, it seemed the perfect choice to keep me focused and moving on this journey.
P=Preparedness
A=Adaptability
S=Spontaneity
S=Single-mindedness
A=Availability
G=Gratitude
E=Enthusiasm
But now, six months later, I am here in Asheville and I feel like I am on the other side of that passage. That I have somehow arrived in a new place with myself.
I’ve been here in this campground for almost a month, and I have needed this time to collect myself, to step back and realize how I got here, literally and figuratively. And I have been loving this time of contemplation and quiet, days of sitting and watching the river.
But now, I am beginning to feel antsy. Bored. And I’m feeling that handing out books to campers is no longer enough. I’m ready to be more active.
Action is one step, then another. Being active is staying engaged, participating, connecting. It is being activated.
After almost 30 years in my Mac business, it’s easy for me to forget that starting a new business (and that’s what I’m doing with my book and my writing), requires daily attention, actions, stretching, growing, activating.
But as my Mac business is, in many ways, becoming more passive, I too have become less involved, less engaged, less motivated and excited about creating something new.
But now I am realizing that I am ready for more activity. I am consciously reminding myself that this new work is what excites me. That I LIKE talking about my book. And that I can use the skills and tools I’ve been using in my Mac business to get this new work out into the world.
Several folks have asked if I am writing a book about this adventure. One friend suggested that, instead of just focusing on a bigger story of a book, to start with a short e-book, highlighting some of the things I’m learning about this kind of journeying.
This excites me. It’s a small enough project to make happen while I am here, in this open-hearted place by the river. It gives me a focus for my daily writing. And if I give myself a deadline, it will get done.
So I have begun this new writing project and would love to know what you might want to know about RV living in general, this journey I’m on, or anything else you’re curious about.
Meanwhile, I will be a guest on two internet radio shows next week, talking about Heart Sparks, Creativity and who knows what else! Stay tuned for details!
[ssba]
Sit. Stay. Be.
Cody and I are still in Asheville, camped on the French Broad River. It is quiet and spacious and comfortable. We are RIGHT. ON. the river. The camp hosts are delightful. It’s close to shopping and it’s a wonderful place to invite people to come visit me. The weather is idea, there are no mosquitoes or ticks. There is free wifi. And staying in one place saves on gas.
The other day I went up to the office to pay for another week here, and I said to Bill, the camp owner, I’m going to be staying in Asheville through July 7. I have reservations at another park for after the 11th (the last date open here), but I’d love to be able to come back if anything opens up.
Let me look, he said. I’ll see what I can do.
I was expecting a few days here and there, especially with July 4th and all.
I can get you in, he said.
For the whole time?
Yep. You’ll have to move over a spot.
Through July 4th?
I thought you wanted it through the 7th?
And I get to pay the monthly rate, which is so much more affordable than $33.00 a day.
This is what happens when we know so deeply what we want. And when we ask, with no expectation. And when we open to more than we can imagine.
For a while I wondered about the other place that I had been planning to move to. It was closer to downtown Asheville, which would be closer for my friends, still on the river, and on a multi-use trail so I could finally ride my bike. But the path went right through the park, so not great security. And it was next to the noisy highway. And the reviews weren’t that favorable. I considered driving over there to check it out while I got my propane tank filled, but they were out of propane. I took it as the final sign that I didn’t need to see it to know that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And then Sunday, I had a bit of a meltdown. After all of the recent excitement and magic of connecting with friends and meeting new people, and knowing that I am here for a whole extra month, I had no plans and didn’t know what I was going to DO with the day.
I took a walk with Cody and realized that there are parts of me that are still swirling in all of the recent happenings, some that are ready for the next big step, and other parts are needing to catch up, and still other parts just want to rest.
And so really, the day was not about Doing anything, it was about NOT doing. Stilling. Be-ing.
I have been watching the rush of the river every day, daring myself to walk farther and farther into the current. The other day, in my bathing suit, I walked out half way up my thighs, just past where I couldn’t see the rocks on the bottom. I footed around to make sure it was level, and then I walked just a little further so that I could dunk myself in. I got wet up to just below my shoulders – I couldn’t crouch any lower. And it was a rush of exhilarating cold and flow and it felt great!
So many things about being here are like that exhilarating rush: choosing this gorgeous campground, feeling such a connection to the river, being so welcomed by friends, inviting people to sit by the river with me, I’m even working, in person and virtually, with Mac and coaching clients.
All of it is so exciting, and wonder-ous, and heart sparking. And maybe a little exhausting.
So instead of rushing to the next big thing, I’m going to find a quiet pooling of water that isn’t rushing upstream, and I’m just gonna sit and breathe and sit with all that has been and all that is, and gather my parts all together again. And THEN I’ll be ready to take the next first step.
[ssba]Watching the River Run
I am staying in Asheville, NC at least through June 11. Maybe through July 4th, if I can get reservations. Because it is beautiful. Because I have friends here. Because I haven’t felt this clear and good and present in a long time.
By choosing to stay, everything has shifted. I can completely relax into being here and soaking up everything without being distracted by needing to think about where and what is next.
I have been practicing sitting by the river, watching the water. Not thinking or planning or taking pictures, just being fully present to the ripples and the birds and the rich smells. Some efforts are more successful than others, but I just come back to my breath and the water and try again.
And I’m learning how to enjoy being more social.
I’m saying yes to dinner invitations. I’m inviting friends to come sit with me by the river. I’m making one sweet connection at a time, me being able to offer a relaxing space of time to visit and get to know more of these mostly Facebook friends.
I even said yes to going for a bike ride with a hard core cycling friend. I told her my limit was probably five miles, and she said fine. But when I looked at the road, a two lane, curving mountain road with no shoulder or bike lane, I heard myself say a big NO. Was I being a woos? it didn’t matter. I didn’t feel comfortable riding under those conditions. So I told my friend how I felt and said that, if she could find a bike path, I’d still ride. But instead, we had a wonderful conversation just sitting by the water.
Sometimes it’s just about saying yes… even if you don’t end up following through. Because you’ve opened yourself up. The intention is there. You’ve moved a step in a Yes direction.
Saying NO is not a sign of failure or weakness. In fact, saying No AFTER saying yes can be even MORE empowering.
In the past two weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with friends. Lunches, dinners, a drumming circle, grocery shopping, the Farmer’s Market, many sitting times on the river. On Saturday Cody and I joined our friend Ursula for a hike and in the evening we sat outside at our friend Anna’s house for lovely little dinner party, looking out over the seven mountain ridges that stretch from Asheville to Tennessee.
I’ve loved all of it. But, between all of the activity and spending so much time outside in the pollen-filled breeze, I ended up with a little sinus infection. And I was tired.
So on Sunday, after working in-person with a Mac client, I just wanted to nap and stay inside. But I had invited Joann, a friend of a friend, to come and sit by the river in the afternoon.
I emailed Joann that I’d really like to reschedule, and she completely understood. I was so relieved. I took an hour nap, woke up stuffy and groggy and just hung out the rest of the day, so grateful for the space to just be.
There are times when I start to spin my wheels, and get all wrapped up in thinking about the travel back west. I have to be back in Phoenix by August 5 to fly to Colorado Springs for a big training job. But I have no clear ideas, just some options… and so I have to let it go.
And I come back to being right here. Right now. Where the river is flowing from south to north, and the sky is hinting at more rain. I shift my focus to how full my heart feels right now and remind myself that I have two whole weeks before I need to know what’s next. And so really the question is what do I want to do now.
For most of this trip I’ve had a theme song for each state. In New Mexico it was Paul Simon’s “Hearts and Bones,” in Texas it was Glen Campbell’s “Galveston.” Then Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou” in Louisiana, “Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shining on me,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and “Georgia on My Mind.”
But here in North Carolina, camped on the banks of the French Broad River, it took a few days to choose. Loggins and Messina’s “Watching the River Run,” captures it all.
“If you’ve been thinking you’re all that you’ve got
don’t feel alone anymore
When we’re together then you’ve got a lot
I am the river and you are the shore
And it goes on and on, watching the river run
Further and further from things that we’ve done
Leaving them one by one
And we have just begun, watching the river run
Listening, learning, yearning, run river run…”
And so I am here, listening, learning and exploring what I might really be yearning. And watching the river run. (Click to watch the river with me!)
[ssba]
Listening In
It’s a little after seven in the morning and Cody and I just finished playing our first round of ball. We are still camped 20 minutes north of Asheville, North Carolina in a small campground right on the banks on the French Broad River. There are trees, some grass and several families of Canada Geese.
I have so been enjoying my time here. It is gorgeous, and quiet and alive with the water and the train and there are people to talk with and places to walk and explore. I’ve been getting together with old friends and new, and I even joined in at the Friday night drumming circle downtown.
I facilitated a Heart Sparks workshop at the local Unity of the Blue Ridge and a friend hosted a lovely book party at her home. And next week, I’m doing some Mac and iPad training.
I feel like I am just settling into something new in myself and I so wish I could stay here longer to really explore it without the distractions of traveling and what’s next.
But when I made my reservation, they were full for Memorial Day, so I was scheduled to leave on Wednesday and move on to Rome, Georgia, then Decatur, Alabama.
But on our morning walk on Sunday, the camp host stopped us to tell me they had a cancellation and did I want to stay longer.
My heart literally leaped in my chest with joy.
And even though I have a friend who has been diligently planning some Heart Sparks events in the next town over the holiday weekend, my whole body said Stay. And so I am. All the way through the end of May. And I am so. very. happy.
And as I sit here and open up to this space I have created, I can’t believe how good it feels to give myself this freedom, without a second thought.
I have been inviting friends to come and sit by the river with me. To relax and breathe and soak up the beauty of this place. And we have had such rich, reflective and inspiring conversations. I even had a massage right outside the RV, with the overcast sky and the water and it was incredible.
And, now that I am staying so much longer, I’m going to share the magic of this place at the Heart Sparks River Retreat Day. (Saturday, May 31. Email me for details!)
When I set out on this journey, I had a vision that I would meet someone new in Asheville. And I have. I have met myself.
For years, I have been stifling my sense of wonder and adventure, my love of connection, believing that I am happier playing it safe and comfortable, by myself. For those of you who know about the enneagram, I used to strongly identify with being a 7- optimistic, adventurous, enthusiastic. But in the last five years, I just haven’t felt it.
Now, suddenly, I am remembering how wonderful it feels to shine so bright from the inside, to show up for myself the way I show up for others, to say yes to things without stopping myself with old stories.
The other day I went to Walmart. I don’t usually shop there, but I needed to stock up on all kinds of things and Walmart was close and it’s easy to park the RV in their big lot. I found everything I needed, only got slightly cranky waiting 5 minutes to get ¼ lb of sliced turkey, and then I had a lovely exchange with my checkout person, Irene.
I said, “Where I come from, going to Walmart on a Saturday morning is crazy making.”
She asked, “where’s that?
“Phoenix,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Traveling around in my RV.”
Her whole face lit up. “Just you?”
“And my dog.”
“Oh wow. That’s what I want to do. Just me.”
I said, “Well I’ve done it with someone, and now I’m doing it by myself. There are definite advantages and disadvantages to both. But so far, I’m loving it.”
“Oh. I know I just want to go by myself,” she said.
“Make a plan,” I said. “You can make it happen.”
And she believed me.
And I wanted to tell her about my book. And give her a copy. But I didn’t want to walk all the way back from where I had parked the RV to get it. And I didn’t even think to just give her a card.
But later, when I was sitting with Cody by the river, remembering the exchange, I thought how fun it would be to mail her a copy.
So I called Walmart, got her name and employee number and I just addressed the envelope.
This! This is such a fun way to share my book and my message. Last week I mailed a copy to the very friendly and helpful woman at the RV Park in Louisiana. She emailed me with such delight, that I had thought of her, that I sent her the book. She said she reviews books all the time and she will send me the link. Wow.
We never know how we will touch someone when we show up with a full and open heart. Even more surprising is how it opens up something in ourselves.
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When Things Get Uncomfortable
Note: I wrote this in December, 2012, three months after I moved to the beach in California. I share it today because the themes are the same today as I navigate my way on the Heart Sparks Road Tour.
“This is the place of creative incubation. At first, you may find nothing happens there. But, if you have a sacred place and use it, take advantage of it, something will happen.” Joseph Campbell
With all of the posts and photos of me in this beautiful dream-come-true life, I have friends writing, asking me how am I REALLY doing. And I have to admit, every day is not a walk on the beach. Well, on one hand it is, because Laddy and I do walk on the beach at least once every day. But some days I’m not as willing or able to enjoy the beauty of the walk.
My original vision that got me here is not the life I want to live. This is the only thing I know. I don’t know what I do want, or how I want to be serving in a bigger way. And this not knowing can be mighty uncomfortable.
Some days my focus shifts to how hard it is to live in a place where I don’t know many people. Some days I wonder if this is really the place for me. Some days I feel so lost without a true direction, a solid plan, a clear answer to what I’m doing here.
And when it gets really uncomfortable, I scan Craigslist, thinking that finding a house will solve my troubles.
And then I breathe and laugh at myself, and see how easy it is for me to think that doing something else will alleviate the real feelings. Sure it will, for a time. But, bottom line, I need to feel what I’m feeling and dive even deeper into the discomfort to find ways to be OK with it. Only then will I move through and find myself on the other side.
When I’m able to step back and then in again, I see what a gift I am giving myself, living here with very few obligations, commitments, stressors. I don’t have to work 40 hours a week, my rent is affordable and the view is fantastic.
I have created this amazing opened space to dream new dreams, discover new why’s and really fall in love with myself and my life.
And so each week I engage in some new activity and do something to connect with people who enjoy what I enjoy. I went to a yoga and writing workshop. I attended an amazing kirtan concert. I even feasted at an all-you-can-eat crab feed.
And each experience sheds some light into the unknown, sparks a dream I have forgotten, reminds me what I do love to do.
Every day I watch the tide roll in, all the way up to the rocks, then retreat back into the ocean. Clouds gather in the sky, hiding the sun, then spread and float, breaking into blue. I know this is the rhythm of living, up and down, in and out. And I know that when I come back to here, this moment, this single in breath and out breath, I am exactly where I need to be and that I have everything I need.
And so each day, my focus is simply to pay attention. To notice the beauty around me and follow the energy of each moment. To sleep if I am tired and walk when I feel stuck. To feed myself what I am craving and seek out companionship when I am lonely. To laugh at my old patterns and catch myself when I feel the impulse to run. To lean deeper into being still and uncomfortable and keep breathing, feeling my way through. Only then will I hear the whisper of new questions and be willing to follow them to discover the answers.
How do you move through the uncomfortable? I’d love for you to share your experience by clicking on the Comments below.
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Redefining Adventure
I’m in Alabama, camped along a lake, getting ready for the next three weeks of full-on Heart Sparks activities.
I’m loving this stretch of rest and peace, realizing that my pace has shifted. I’m more interested in staying in a place for a few days, to settle in, explore the landscape and trails, feel the air and smell the trees and bathe in all of the green and light.
I don’t want to be rushing to the next place, but I do what to know where it is.
Yes, I have patches of lonely, and what the hell am I doing? And there are days when I wonder what the point of this all is.
But when I come back to my breath, the water, the birds, the peace I feel, I remind myself to trust that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
driving north on the Natchez Trace, MS
I have never been what folks would call adventurous. Not with my eating, not with my daily activities and certainly not as a traveler. I’m much more comfortable staying home, putzing, writing, engaging with people one on one.
And yet, here I am, living full-time in my 24 foot motorhome, camped in a city park in the middle of Jackson, MS surrounded by a lake, trees and so much green. And I am most certainly on an adventure.
But every time I’d think about the word Adventure, I felt “less than.” Because I wasn’t trying new things, or stopping in the sweet towns I drove through, or even sampling the local cuisine.
I had to redefine the word so that it felt good to claim it, instead of it making me feel like I was not living up to someone else’s definition of the word.
Adventure doesn’t have to mean thrilling, like sky diving, or hiking to some ridiculously high peak to get an amazing panoramic view. While adventure implies excitement, it doesn’t have to be dangerous.
Adventure can be joyful and fun, curious and delight-full. It is walking a new trail and seeing a frog, smaller than my thumb, hop right across my path. It’s feeling the coolness of the rain-soaked grasses brush against my bare calves, and not caring that my shoes are getting wet.
Adventure means seeing what else there is…. to notice, to feel, to smell, taste, just take in and experience what is right around you. Beyond what is known, familiar, comfortable.
Adventure is driving around a town without my GPS on, just seeing the streets and houses and how people live.
Adventure is walking home on a different trail, trusting my sense of direction.
Adventure is riding my bike on a nature trail, even though the sign says No Bikes Allowed.
For some people, adventure is not knowing where you’ll be staying the next night. I tried it. I didn’t like it. It caused way too much anxiety and stress, even though I trusted it would all work out, and it did.
And this too, is adventure: navigating with my heart, trusting my gut, and believing that it will all work out for the best.
What does adventure look and feel like for you? Click on the Comments to share!
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