I am sitting in my living room on a Saturday morning in my bathrobe, with freshly dyed hair (good-bye for a month terrible grey roots!) and an empty house. A house that looks like a cyclone went through it mind you, but empty nonetheless. I dropped Dave and Maya at the airport a few short hours ago so that they could visit his family in Ontario. It’s been almost a year since we moved from Ontario to B.C., which is hard to believe.
As I’m sitting here, listening to loud music (Metric of course), their absence is sinking in. Since I had Maya I have only been away from her twice, and only for a few days. I was dreading saying good-bye. I was anticipating sobs and wailing “Mommy come with us!!” Of course she dealt with it must better than I did. “Bye-bye Mommy! I love you!” And off she went, holding Daddy’s hand. She didn’t even look back.
Ten days. Ten days without them. In that time I need to fit in all of the things I want/need to do. The thing most pressing is, depressingly, cleaning this apartment. Moving from a house to an apartment has been an adjustment. Keeping a small place clean, when a toddler is one of the three people living there, is more challenging than I had imagined. And to top it all off I detest cleaning. I become a vile creature when I clean, particularly if I must do it in silence. Music is the only companion I want around me when I clean.
The other task I want to accomplish while they are away is to write. I have had a strange relationship with writing. It has been a dream of mine since I can remember, to write. Not to be a writer, mind you; oddly that was never the goal. Over the years, however, every time I attempted to write something intended for public consumption, the words that came out on the page were so embarrassing that I would hide the dreadful things away, along with the dream, until the next time I became desperate enough to put pen to page. And so the dream was put off. I wrote in my journals, wrote paper after paper for school, wrote reports for work, but never dared to write. It was too scary. The fantasy was ephemeral, living at the edges of my consciousness, making the odd, limping, appearance in my longing, but without enough force to get me to really pay attention.
I had heard someone say that you should never attempt to actually do what you fantasize about. Once the fantasy was realized, he argued, you have nothing left; emptiness where once lived longing and desire. On first hearing this I agreed, but what is assumed in this theory is that the soil of that emptiness would be so barren that no seed could possibly take root to create a new and possibly more wonderful fantasy.
I had many fantasies that I had kept hidden away; to be a rock star, or a famous movie actress. My dream of writing had been so daunting, however, that it never contemplated actually being a writer. That would be too audacious. To even fantasize about it would invite retribution. It would tempt fate. My belief in the world was something like this: every moment of joy would be responded to by three times that of disaster. I’m not sure where this distrust of the world came from, but it made me very protective of my dreams. I kept them locked away, as one would lock away their most precious possessions to safeguard them from invaders during a war. That is what I did with my dreams. My life was the war. I hid my dreams so well that I forgot that they existed.
My belief about the world was forever changed as a result of participating in a unique program called “Guiding Spirit.” I’ve described it in my birth story blog, but, in short, it changed my life. I learned profound things about myself. The most important realization was how little I actually trusted the world. I expected to be betrayed, disappointed, abandoned, hurt.
This immense distrust first hit me when we did a “high ropes” course. It was like a giant playground for adults, but suspended about 40 feet off the ground. I am scared of heights. It was my turn to do the log crossing. I put on my harness and climbed up the forty feet to the log. It was a thick and suspended in mid air. I had walked, even run, on many logs this size with no fear. But those were on the ground.
I took my first step and my whole body started to shake uncontrollably. I stopped. I couldn’t even trust my body to work properly. The people below, holding on to ropes that would hold me if I fell, were starting to get bored. One of the men started to yell encouraging words. I think it was something to the effect of “For fuck’s sake will you GO already!”
I stood there shaking. I was too scared to walk. My legs were shaking so badly I knew I would fall. I started to examine the Fear that had invaded my body. What was I really afraid of? I was harnessed in. If I fell the people below would hold on to the ropes and would stop my fall. That is when it hit me. I didn’t trust that they would hang on when I needed them. Fear whispered to me “They are bored, they’re not really paying attention, they don’t know you or care about you. They will let you fall.”
I listened, then looked Fear in the eye. “No. I do not believe you.” It was true that these people did not know or care about me, but I decided to trust them anyway. The second I made the decision to trust, Fear slithered quickly out of body. My legs stopped shaking. I felt calm. I walked across the log with the same confidence I would have had it been on the ground.
After two months of adventures designed to test our limits, dissolve our defenses and make us more aware and connected human beings, it was time for the grand finale, the solo; the right of passage to transition us to the next part of the program. Our solo would involve three days of venturing into the Canadian Rockies. Alone.
I had accepted one of our guides, Julian’s, challenge. It was like he was speaking directly to me when he told our group that the only way we would learn the profound lessons about ourselves we had said we wanted to learn would be to give up the things that make us feel secure. I knew he was right. I had not taken the solo seriously.
I started to consider what deep truths I wanted to discover from this experience. What came to me was slightly shocking. I wanted to learn that I could trust the world; that if I went out into the world alone and vulnerable, that I would be cared for. Being alone didn’t make me insecure, but being cold did. I determined that in order to truly test this theory I had to severely limit what I could bring. I decided I would bring next to nothing; no sleeping bag, no tent. Immediately after that decision, Fear crept into my body with a vengeance. I knew I was on the right path.
To assuage my fears, I went to speak to Pat, our other guide. He asked me to think of the worst possible place I could imagine being. It was in the middle of the Arctic, surrounded by snow, cold and alone. I told him my plan, to bring nothing with me except a small fleece blanket. He immediately looked concerned. “Julie you need to bring a sleeping bag.” I had expected him to support my crazy plan. Fear was positively gleeful. “I told you! Your plan is TERRIBLE. You are going to freeze to death in the mountains. I told you!!”
It was a pivotal moment. I knew that this act of faith on my part was crucial. Bringing a sleeping bag would signify that I did not truly trust the world with my life. “Sure I trust you! But just in case you let me down I have this handy sleeping bag. Just in case. But I trust you! I swear.” Perhaps that was Pat’s point; that I shouldn’t trust the world in this way. It was foolish. We were in the mountains for god’s sake, where snowstorms in the summer are not uncommon. It was the perfect moment to back down. Pat, someone whose knowledge and wisdom I counted on was telling me I was being foolish. I should listen to him. A part of me I had forgotten spoke up forcefully. “No. You need to trust yourself.” I listened and stood my ground. I explained my rationale to Pat, my need to commit to my plan, to trust that I would be cared for. I must have sounded persuasive. He told me to jump up and down if I got cold.
The morning we were to leave we went into the sweat lodge. When it came to the round where we were to pray for ourselves, I called out silently to the mystery of the universe, what they called Great Spirit and the Creator. I asked for help. Please help me stay awake. Please help me stay warm. I left the sweat lodge, said good-bye to the others, and walked towards the mountains. I did not look back.
I brought very little with me: no food, no water, and no shelter. My plan was to fast and stay awake for the full three days. I felt both terrified and confident. I walked up the mountainside and into the wilderness, not knowing that this experience would change me forever.
Stay tuned for Part II