The Courage to Be

Barefeet in a new place

Dear Starlight,

I haven't been able to make a phone call for 48 hours–even if I wanted to. 

I'm at risk of driving back and forth over a mountain on long dirt roads with no sense of where I started or how to get to where I imagine I'm going. 

Writing these few sentences is taking longer than ever before because the internet continues to go in and out like the breath that's chortled in the throat of someone snoring; for some reason, writing that, I feel Deja Vu.

I'm in VT, dipped into a bend at the bottom of a mini mountain. I'm off the map of any cellular anything. It's emerald out all the windows. I hear a constant stream babbling and the occasional speeding vehicle accelerating with joy as it hits a paved road after miles of flying gravel.

I will be here quite a bit over the next four weeks as we have company closure for summer break, and my son is away at Harvard Summer College.

The last two weeks have felt like the end of a marathon, pushing with every last bit of energy to a finish line. I crossed it Friday night, stumbling into VT. I woke up yesterday disoriented and, if I'm honest, nauseous and riddled with anxiety. 

The grounds here are covered in winding curves of color as perennials come into bloom. Sweet little pointy yellow petals and drooping pink peonies with poppy petals all over the floor like remnants of mascara on cheeks if poppies were eyelashes. 

"You've made a foolish mistake. You don't belong here." Someone said inside me. So, yesterday, I tried to hide myself from myself. Or rather hide my doubtful inner monologue. Or rather, bury it by taking a nap, like an ostrich pushing its head into the ground. There's nothing worse than being disdainful of something you dream of giving yourself–deserving of a thousand self-lashes of penance for ungratefulness. 

It is also true that when you run track or cross-country, you often throw up once you "make it," and then you pace dazed and ugly in sweat with shaky knees. 

I don't have the right clothes with me. I'm cold. Did I already tell you I forgot to pack salt? So my first two meals were tasteless because it takes twenty-five minutes minimum to get "somewhere" that sells salt. 

There is an adventure here. I am excited to meet it. I have seen the way the clouds rise above the mountaintops like a heavenly curtain being pulled up by the hardworking hands of God. A new scene is about to unfold. Act. 3. After an extended intermission.

I cannot promise anything right now. I thought I'd make a declaration that I'm taking a summer pause on Sunday Circle as I settle into summer solitude. But I'm not certain that's what I'll do. I'm sorry I cannot send you a complete thought, an answer, a bow tied well.

One thing I can share is that when I dropped Sunny off in Cambridge last weekend, I found a book in one of those little free neighborhood book swap boxes. I found 'The Courage to Be' by Paul Tillich. This is also the title of one of my recurring Creativity + Courage workshops. Reading it has felt magical. As some of you may know or recall, at the beginning of the year, I made a daily somatic commitment: "I am a commitment to joy and courage." This commitment has been the rudder of my decisions. It has been a sword. A sharp blade cutting new shapes with aligned choices and actions. 

On page. 14, he writes about how we must learn to feel joy:

"The affirmation of one's essential being in spite of desires and anxieties creates joy…real joy is a severe matter; it is the happiness of a soul which is lifted above every circumstance. Joy accompanies the self-affirmation of our essential being in spite of the inhibitions coming from accidental elements in us. Joy is the emotional expression of the courageous Yes to one's own true being. This combination of courage and joy shows the ontological character of courage most clearly." 

Being here in VT is a choice to honor a part within me that has thirsted for immersion in nature, for deep stillness. And on my first day here, I find my own waters unstill, the "accidental elements" within me choppy. Quivering, like a long-distance runner's legs that buckle as they break that finish line ribbon.

I've lit a few candles, for light, for blessings, for wishes, for beauty, as a small act that glimmers and shimmers a small bit of joy. I'm going to put my bare feet in the stream outside and ask the waters to pull my unease from my tiny toes so that I can enjoy just that. Perhaps that's also what courage to be feels like: bare feet, shivering in the water.