Big Waves, Tippy Kayaks & Boundless Blue

I find myself visiting the same destinations over and over again. When my life begins to feel like the bars of a cage that I fling myself against on a daily basis, I run to them. And if I can't get to one of them, I imagine myself there. My friend, Andrew, calls them "sacred places." My favorite word to describe them is Querencia. 

Querencia (que-ren-cia) A place where one feels safe, a place from which one's strength of character is drawn; a place where one feels at home.

For years, I have trekked up to Whitefish Point in Michigan's upper peninsula to sit on the shore of Lake Superior and breathe. It's an expansive beach littered with giant pieces of driftwood that remind me of the bleached dinosaur bones pictured in my grandpa's National Geographic magazines. Icebergs still float on the lake's surface in May. The sky often melts into the water, the horizon lost in a cerulean haze.  I sit wrapped in a blanket and stare into the boundless blue until all of my empty places are filled up again. This same lake terrifies me. Its enormity and ever-changing moods demand respect. I grew up in northern Michigan listening to stories and songs about its violent storms and the sailors' lives it claimed. It is immense and powerful. As I watch people in kayaks sail by, I get sweaty palms thinking about flipping over into the largest body of fresh water in the world with no horizon to guide me to shore. 

Boundlessness and fear. 

I am fascinated by this paradox. Whenever I've tiptoed toward a dream, fear gnashes its razor-sharp teeth, and I am paralyzed. I know that I'm not alone. Just google quotes about fear and boundlessness, and the internet will provide proof that they exist side-by-side like Artemis and Apollo, the mythological Greek twins who were two sides of the same coin. Separate and different. I've read Kierkegaard, Chopra, Zinn, and Thich Nhat Hanh. I've listened to podcasts, watched documentaries and sat on my meditation cushion, with a white-knuckled grasp on my mala beads, my mind wheeling and spiraling behind my closed eyes. I've taken the grand fucking tour of how-to wisdom: How-to-stop-living-in-the-past-(depression)-and-in-the-future-(anxiety)-and-how-to-live-in-the-present-(quiet-mind)-and-how-to-embrace-the-possibilities. 

And I've made resolutions. 

Goals.

Even SMART goals (specific, measurable, attainable, relevant & timebound). Gag.

I am a master of bullshit. 

Do you remember that moment in the movie "The Wizard of Oz" when Glinda the Good Witch says to Dorothy, "You had the power all along, my dear."? Even as a child, I had the sense that Dorothy should've smacked Glinda upside the head. Glinda could've told her that little piece of information from the get-go. Glinda was a manipulative bitch. I've also learned on my yellow brick road that I've always known what to do. 

I stopped making resolutions. I quit reading about mindfulness. I gave the philosophy books away. I stopped talking about what I want to do. I just did it.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be an author. I wasn't the little girl who played princess and dreamed about Prince Charming...not ever. Instead, I hoarded books and blank journals. I fantasized about having my own space where no one would bug me so I could focus on the book I was reading or writing. 

When I stopped engaging in the busy work that helped me avoid what I had wanted my entire life, I sharpened my pencils and sat down with a brand new blank journal. I put my ruby-slippered feet up on my coffee table and began to write. I could lie to you and say that it all went swimmingly. It didn't. As I wrote, I seesawed wildly between euphoria and self-loathing. I wrote for hours and days at a time, and then abandoned my manuscript for weeks. I gave myself grace and came back to it. I clicked the damn ruby slippers together, over and over again. I did it without a guru whispering in my ear. When fear showed up, I talked to myself like I was talking to a small child. 

"Look how far you've come. No one else has to read this but you. Who cares? Worry about it later."

I set a timer when the task of writing felt scary and bewildering. Only 12 minutes. That's all. You can do that. I put the pencil on the page and my fingers on the keyboard. Nine times out of ten, when the timer sounded, I wanted to continue. I stopped telling my friends and family about my book. I trusted two people outside the safety of my two-person writing group. I protected my fragile heart and the tender pages of my manuscript from anyone who might not understand. I needed to limit the well-intentioned judgmental voices or the apathetic lukewarm responses that would've fertilized the self-doubt I wrestled at every writing session. 

I finished the first draft. 350 pages. 71, 235 words. 

And I did it without a resolution.

I love January. It's new and shiny and arrives with a mouthful of promises, but I loathe resolutions. They limit possibilities because they give too much power to perceived imperfections. Instead, I've learned to get quiet in January and ask myself, "What do you really want?" and "Who's standing in your way?" The answers are deeper because I go inward instead of outward. Like Dorothy, I have always had the power. And you do, too.

Maybe for me, querencia is actually a sacred place inside myself that embraces my possibilities and the fears that accompany them. Big waves, tippy kayaks and boundless blue.

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