being human

being human

by | Apr 10, 2022 | Uncategorized

not that I’d rather be something else, but being human is hard. damn hard.

yesterday I wrote a bigger-than-expected check for taxes, received word that I did NOT receive a residency I’d applied for, had a client cancel last minute, and broke a tooth eating a carrot.

today has been better.

tomorrow… I have no idea.

where do we find the courage to continue?

I began this post three years ago, march of 2019, an entire life ago.  and I pulled it out of my drafts folder last night when my dog peed on my new rug, my electrical outlets in my bedroom stopped working, and I found myself tearful at dinner with friends because they all seem to have better connections with their loved ones than I seem to.

it’s damn hard to be human.

in the past three years I have experienced incredible moments and times and events, felt awe and wonder and gratitude and appreciation. I’ve been gifted with love and support. I’ve received over and over again. I’ve experienced times of belief in both myself, and in my ability to create the fulfilling life I desire. and I’ve also experienced loss, grief, frustration, impotence. anger. sorrow. moments of hopelessness. times when one of my first thoughts of the day is, I can’t wait to put my pajamas back on and go bed tonight. 

and yet, here I am.

hear I am.    listen.

like most everyone else, I will keep moving. I will listen to myself, to my heart, and make every attempt to follow where it wishes to lead me. it doesn’t always make sense to me, but I continue to believe that one day it will. rachel botsman describes trust as an active, responsible ‘confident engagement with the unknown.’ let me, let us all, learn to truly trust.

signing off, perfectly imperfect human that I am,

and sending all the love in the world your way. may you always feel the hands and hearts of others holding you.

the next move

the next move

by | Jun 11, 2020 | Uncategorized

my left toes wedge into a minuscule fissure in the rock face, and those on my right seek purchase somewhere, anywhere. a smooth, blue rope attaches to my harness with a figure eight knot and stretches upward against the rock face. it is held, far above and out of view, snug and secure, by someone who believes in me.

my right fingers grip a small knob of rock, and my left are jammed into a crack in the quartzite. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t believe in myself. I press my hips toward the wall of rock I’m climbing, look down at my right foot, and consider my options, what tiny dip might support my weight, what other way I might possibly adjust my body so that I can move up the cliff. I have nothing; there is nothing I can do. I shouldn’t be here.

but I am here.

what is my next move? I voice these words; the rock absorbs them. for a moment I am still. I repeat the words, and I calm. adjust my right hand, look down, see a possible ripple to which the edge of my foot might cling, pray, test then press down on my right foot, and release my left hand to move it up the crack onto an impossibly tiny but solid ridge.

what is my next move?

surveil, contemplate, test, advance. I don’t let myself look down.

when I reach the peak, there is a pause before my partner and I reattach the blue rope to our harnesses to rappel down what we just climbed. a scraggly, stunted tree sprouts from a crack in the rock and its leaves are effusively green, pliable, soft between my fingers. below us, a sea of pine, oak, aspen. purple and gold crags across the canyon, afire in the evening sun, are, at the moment, my equal.

trust the equipment, trust my partner, trust the mountain. trust myself.

trust that a next move exists.