INNER ADVENTURING

We got together with a bunch of dear, good friends on Saturday night.  We call ourselves "The Tribe".  It was a potluck gathering full of amazingly good food, lighthearted conversation, and lots of laughter.   Over dinner the conversation went in the direction of people sharing tales of their outdoor adventures -- the things they love to do, where they've done them, where they hope to do more of it.  Hiking, biking, camping, snorkeling, scuba diving, kayaking, skiing, snowboarding, boating; travels done or hoped for in the US, Europe, South America, Central America, SE Asia, China, India.

Regular readers of my blog will know how quiet I could have been during this conversation.   I do not particularly like outdoor adventuring, nor traveling.  This puts me in a club of severely limited membership in the Pacific Northwest where passions for these things seem to be a given.  (I fit with the bookstore/coffee shop crowd, who also are a common sight here, but most are just stopping by there in between adventures.)

In order to participate in the conversation, I joined in with my usual self-deprecating jokiness about my lack of Adventuring Gene, with a throw-away, dismissive comment aimed at myself about all of the things they love as something I would never do.  It was funny.  I laughed.  Everyone laughed.  I knew I was violating my therapist's admonition about putting myself down, but I thought I had a good handle on it.  Still, I ended up feeling like the "odd" woman out and not altogether great about it.  But not terrible either.  I thought I'd pulled it off.

Later in the evening the conversation took a turn toward touching on "the divorce".  Not mine and Hub's, but mine with my church.  (Again, I've written about this before, so I won't go into the details here, suffice to say, we split up last August.)  It has been a hard ten months since we parted.  Many don't understand why, many don't care, some hope we will reconcile, almost none understand the depth of hurt and introspection that has gone into diving deep inside myself to figure out how it happened, where I was culpable in the conflict, how we all might have behaved differently, whether I made the right decision, and why I cannot go back to a "partner" I still see as a bit dysfunctional, and with whom I have less and less in common...or at least not a common vision.  I'm trying to move on and find connections in a new and healthier way.   There ended up being maybe a teeny tiny bit of passion around expressing this at the social gathering.  I may have used the "F" word.

Debriefing with Hub the next morning, I allowed that I still seem to have a lot of pain and anger around the divorce and I need to do some more inner work to heal that negativity.  I said that the way I live my inner life, with my constant rumination, seeking to understand situations, other people, and mostly myself on a deep level are every bit as hard as climbing a mountain trail, dammit!  My "adventures" are of an internal nature!

The analogy struck a chord with me.  I realized I have nothing to feel inferior about, nothing to apologize for, if I don't do the "nature challenge" others so enjoy.  My challenges come in the form of deep personal work and the summit I am aiming for is increased self-knowledge, inner peace, compassion and "capital L" Love.

Feeling inspired, I sat down and wrote this poem:

THE ADVENTURER

I ford the river of tears

Climb from the depths of despair

Stumble over jagged rocks of doubt

Lose my way

Each step forward a small victory

Each boot stuck in a muddy rut another defeat

Clouds gather, burst

Cold sleet runs down my neck, chilling me to the bone

Will I ever see the sun?  Hear the birdsong?

Look up at a sky so blue, so clear that all pain is lost in its vast expanse?

I keep the vision close to my heart, the possibility of healing, the promise of joy.

One more step forward, one more slide back, heart muscles aching, breath ragged.

It is a lonely journey, the curved path treacherous, ascent steep

I long for sleep, for rest, for peace

It comes in welcome respite ‘round the night fires

Where other faces emerge from the dark, brother traveler, sister wanderer

Stirring the dying embers, finding warmth, feeling strength return

Awake to another day on the trail ahead

Perhaps this is the day

Perhaps this is the hour

Perhaps this is the moment 

When the summit is reached 

And all the world will lay below me

Dazzling like the jewel that is my life

To live, to love, to be.

****

You take the outer journey, I'll take the inner.  I'll meet you where our paths converge.

At least, that's the view from here...©

BOLDLY GO….

Whooo Boy.  I'm trying not to go on a rant here.  Something has triggered my ire and I want to write about it without sounding defensive.  I might not be able to.

Here goes.  Why is "old" so bad?   Why do we nip, tuck, tweak, dye, and lie it away?  Why is "old" synonymous with infirmity, ignorance, sedentary pursuits, lack of curiosity, and inability to continue to grow in meaningful ways?

I saw this on Facebook today.

I completely understand the sentiment behind this little graphic.  I actually agree with it in intention, but whole-heartedly disagree with the duality with which the idea is presented.

My adventure these days is to find my comfort zone, at all times and in all places, after spending much too much of my life "acting as if", being someone I thought I should be, or what others wanted me to be, or going and doing to such an extent that I was generally overwhelmed and exhausted.  Is wanting to live in my comfort zone a sign of "growing older", no longer willing to push the envelope of "adventure"?  I don't think so.

Are elders unable to be bold?  Is boldness only allowed when one is trekking the Himalayas? Or was my elder mother acting out a kind of boldness when she moved from her large home, selling most of what she had and leaving a lifetime of familiarity behind, to move 2000 miles closer to me?  She didn't see that as an adventure, for sure.  She saw it as a step toward dependence and she resisted it, but with boldness she did it anyway, knowing it was for the best.  She was growing older, but definitely not by any definition moving into her comfort zone.

I think we are all terrified of aging.  I think we project ourselves into that nursing home bed, moaning and groaning, drooling on our hospital gowns, staring at the ceiling, ignored.  Well, maybe that will happen.  Maybe it won't.   Watching my mother age was like watching the most courageous act of will, of surrender, and of grace I've ever seen.  They say getting old isn't for sissies and I think that's true.  You want adventure?  Try being discriminated against…being called "geezer", "hag", "granny" (not as an honorific, but as a pejorative); try being dependent upon others who are too friggin' busy with their adventuring to be present for your final act of courage.

Here's what's bold for me, at 64.  Embracing my age.  Not denying or covering up.  Making friends with a body that is changing in predicable ways.  Undertaking a spiritual practice, with Yoga and meditation, that allows me to gain strength, balance, insight, and peace.  My "call" is to pursue a quest of comfort with aging.  But I don't think it's a passive pursuit.  I think it's pretty damn bold and adventurous to face reality and embrace life here, now, with grace and humility, with curiosity and challenge, with commitment and fortitude.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©