In early September, in the days after attaining my Coastal Navigation certification with my sailing mentor, Nancy Erley, I felt empowered—a confident captain of my fair little ship. I started drafting a piece titled Empowerment. According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary (online edition) empowerment means: the act or action of empowering someone or something; the granting of the power, right, or authority to perform various acts or duties. By the time I re-opened the file after a week of end-of-sailing-season boat work, instead of feeling sure of my skills and judgement, I once again felt “not enough.” Though I certainly did not know any less on that day than when Nancy departed Kagán for home, somehow I felt like I did. It made me wonder, as noted in the definition, if I needed the power to be “granted” to me by someone else. Why can’t I claim it for myself?
I don’t love this feeling, this need to be empowered by another’s faith in me, rather than my own belief in myself. No matter how much I respect her, and my respect for Nancy is beyond measure, still I want to feel it within, and I have no doubt Nancy would want that for me—she respects me, so when will I?
I also don’t love disclosing this, but I believe there is power in going deep, in having the courage to be vulnerable as a writer. I believe that is how writers touch people most profoundly. Maybe that is one of the things I can claim for myself, courage as a writer.
Now that I consider it, even when I go from feeling like a confident captain to an uncertain one, I still get out there—sailing, cruising, and caring for Kagán—sometimes alone and sometimes with crew, but out there doing it. It seems Empowered Me and Insecure Me look pretty much the same to everyone but me. And maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one in that same boat or on that same page.
Here’s another confession, I do love show tunes. But how does that relate to empowerment? Well, in the words of the lyricist, Oscar Hammerstein II in the song I Whistle a Happy Tune from the musical The King and I:
Make believe you’re brave And the trick will take you far. You may be as brave As you make believe you are.
Though I’m not a big fan of “faking it until you make it,” I think in this case, it isn’t faking whatever the task at hand is (like, for instance, docking Kagán), it’s faking believing in myself until I actually do.
So, the passage I’m on these days, by land or by sea, is the ongoing journey to myself, as always with notebook in hand. Perhaps, en route, I’ll redefine empowerment for myself. I expect wherever I go, there I’ll be in all my glory, in whatever way I choose to define that. How about this—empowered and enough.
Sometimes it takes decades, and sometimes just a moment…
Growing Up and Out
(2000)
I grew up, into me, not who you wanted me to be. You remember, and so do I, that I would do all you said, that I would be who you said, when I was small.
That little girl seemed to need you, so much. But look closer, through the prism of the years, and it is you who clung so hard. And I answered your need— being yours.
But now I’m not. Now, I belong to me and to the earth and to the sea and to the sky I grew up and out, like a plant drawing nurture through my roots, drinking deeply of the waters, reaching toward the light. Unqualified love is not jealous, it says not who I should be.
Swoosh
(2022)
There comes a day, a moment even, when you know the struggle is over. You have chosen that your struggle is over. Anyone else’s is not yours to fight—for or against.
But blood is thicker than water, voices echo in your ears, to which you reply, “The rivers flowing within and without— my blood, my tears—matter too.” The rhythm of your heart, in that moment come, beats sure—let go, let go, let go.
In the surrendering, you are free to shape a life that soars, the ropes of familial guilt that tethered you your whole long life before, finally cut with the sweep of your own sword. The sound of its swoosh music to your ears.
In my last post, I talked about inevitabilities, like rejection in the writing life. But there are ways to make that inevitability a little less so. First, and always, the story needs to be compelling, but most of us have a captivating tale or two to tell. If you want people (besides your family and friends) to read it, the writing itself (the craft of the piece) needs to be solid too. This, I think, is where some miss the mark, sending their work out too soon. It takes time to learn the craft, and it takes writing, re-writing, and yet more re-writing for a story to be ready for the wider world. And a book, well, for most of us who take that on, writing a book is a journey that takes years. For me, as a geologist who has worked on such things, the most apt metaphor would be that the foundation has to be solid for a structure to stand.
These days, the writing isn’t all it takes, perhaps it never was. But now more than ever, a writer needs to find their readers (and show editors considering their work that they have). So here’s the new trick this particular ‘old dog’ is going to learn. How to jump into the world as an author, as well as a writer.
Looking up synonyms for author, I find writer, yes, but also, inventor and creator and instigator. And source, cause, and origin. That I can relate to—without ever putting it into words before, I’ve invented and re-invented myself after devastating losses, after illness, and through the inevitable smaller disappointments of life. Not only have I written and re-written a book, I have written and re-written my life. I am the author of a life I’m incredibly grateful for and pretty darn proud of.
Maybe there’s no trick for this ‘old dog’ to learn. Maybe all this ‘old dog’ needs to do is be willing to reveal her authentic self to the wider world, like dogs (old and young) always do. Have you ever met a dog who wasn’t truly themselves? Nope, me neither.
There are nuts and bolts to stepping out into the wider world, to showing up for a broader audience, so I’m collecting resources and equipment, and taking classes and webinars that will provide me with those skills and tools. Let the training begin! I’m going to jump into this endeavor as I have to so many others (like deciding to write a book, for one).
And speaking of jumping, you can teach old dogs new tricks. Capi, who will be fifteen next month, was quite motivated to learn how to jump for, and often catch, after-dinner treats. She learned this neat trick a couple of years ago, at an already advanced age for a furry four-legged friend. But not only did she learn the trick, she trained us to toss three treats each, and no less. And believe me when I say, she can count.
Here’s to all the beloved old dogs, who show us how to live life in the most authentic way. I, for one, am working on learning the lessons those pups have for me. How about you, readers? Who do you want to show up as? Who do you want to be in the world?
As I gaze into the dispassionate face of inevitability, how will I choose to be? Who will I choose to be?
Rejection is inevitable for any writer. Though you wouldn’t guess this from social media posts where triumphant acceptances are celebrated (and really, why would we broadcast our flops far and wide?). Still, ask even the most successful among us, and they will tell you rejection is inevitable. And it hurts. Sometimes it’s a sting, sometimes a gut punch.
I have said many times, often just to myself, my words are notme. I am not being rejected. That is true. But I do put a lot of myself into my writing (while not necessarily writing about me), and therefore I am putting myself out there when I submit work for possible publication. Or rejection. And have I mentioned that rejection sucks?
More than once, I have asked myself if it’s time to stop—stop writing, stop submitting, just stop—because the rejection hurts too much. Every time I sit myself down to seriously consider that question—Is it time to stop?—some new idea or next line dances through my head and I can’t keep myself from writing it down. The joy of the work itself has, at least so far, overcome the inevitable pain. I find myself in this work (even when I’m not writing about me).
What I found in this work today (aside from a fresh crop of rejections in my inbox, go figure…) was as much about inevitability in life as in writing. And let’s face it, some people do evade taxes, so you know what I’m talking about—the big D and I don’t mean Dallas (sorry to those not familiar with that country song, I just couldn’t resist). I am playing with words here, one of the things I love about writing, but I’m quite serious about the notion. Death is, indeed, inevitable.
Here, we are facing losing our little dog, Capi. We can’t say when, but we know her liver is diseased and could fail at any time. She, however, has not gotten the memo that she is not well. She continues to take us for walks, eat with gusto, and generally delight in life. If she can face the inevitable with such grace, perhaps I can too.
Why waste a minute grieving before I must? Why lose my love of words over an editor’s dismissal of some of mine? So, at least for today, I’ll stare inevitability down.
“Life gets mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste.”
“Is that fun?” my mother had asked some years ago.
“Is putting a 30-lb backpack on and hiking 10 miles fun?” I answered with a question, perhaps asking myself. “Not exactly, but going amazing places most other people won’t get to is.”
I could end this piece right here; that is reason enough. But there is more to it.
I’ve just returned from my seventh backpacking trip in the Grand Canyon. It is a place whose magic keeps calling to me—in its sheer beauty, in the geologic story it tells, in its sure-footed big horn sheep, its scurrying lizards, and iridescent and intelligent ravens. And still there’s more.
In those five days, I lived more in the moment than I probably have in the past five months. Mindfulness, so often a struggle in day-to-day life, simply happens (okay, except for when I unwittingly squirt myself and half the crew with sun-brewed jasmine tea, and oh yes, that clomp on the head with a very low branch as I scrambled to get the fly on my tent ahead of fast-approaching rain).
On the trail, I placed my feet and hiking poles with intention. I felt the cool swallows of water slide down my throat. When I paused, wonder at the beauty and enormity of the landscape washed over me. In camp, freeze-dried food tasted savory. Tiny sips of Grand Marnier before bed were pure elixir. If nothing hurt, life was good. And if something did, my only job was to adjust it, stretch it, or bandage it. If my tent kept me dry in a squall and my sleeping bag was cozy on a cold, clear, moonlit night, then I was happy.
That would be more than enough, but I’m not quite finished.
No longer the road-racing runner I was at 29 (whose legs were strong enough to throw on a 40-lb pack and go for miles and miles without thinking much about it), like I was when I took my very first backpacking trip on a long-ago rainy weekend in the Virginia mountains; at 60, I prepare—wearing a hunky brace on my seriously-compromised left knee (a life of playing hard comes with costs) and training for ten weeks. I carried increasing amounts of weight in my pack and went on progressively longer hikes in order to be ready for the longest, most challenging route I had yet taken in the canyon. My reward? The journey of the hiking itself, not only getting to the destination, became part of the fun (though I won’t lie, arriving at camp and setting my pack down at the end of each day’s trek felt darn good too).
Home less than a day, I’m in wilderness withdrawal, feeling melancholy that this particular adventure is now past. Perched upon a boulder in an arroyo, I’m writing longhand in a tiny notebook, because I’m not ready to power up my computer and return to on-screen life. It will take a few days for hiking to become a part of my day again, instead of my day, period. I already miss the shared laughter and accomplishment, and I’m noticing the contrasts of feeling both strong and spent, empowered and humbled. That’s why I backpack.
A note of thanks to our COVID-safe crew, who quarantined and tested, so we could safely take this trip together. Here’s to you, and our next adventure!
Geologists study the earth and the processes that shape it. Writers study the human heart and the processes that shape it. The GeologistWriter builds a bridge between the two. Come across it with me!
Recent Comments