Yesterday's hike to Spectacle and Solitude Lakes in RMNP provided more fodder for blogs than I'm likely to use. Climbing for the goal, walking with and through fear, crossing waters, feeling exposed--and more. No, I won't write about all of them today--maybe not on another day either.
For those not familiar with the trek to these lakes, the longest and easiest portion is the trail to Black Lake (above Mills Lake) to the point where the trail opens on the beautiful meadow in the photographs on a couple of blogs ago (about 4 miles one way). The stream in that photo must be crossed to start the steep, steep hike through boulders and tree limbs, rocks and paths that fade into the landscape. Yes, we had been there before and said we would never do it again--a lesson, perhaps, on how we walk the same difficult paths over and over.
For those not familiar with the trek to these lakes, the longest and easiest portion is the trail to Black Lake (above Mills Lake) to the point where the trail opens on the beautiful meadow in the photographs on a couple of blogs ago (about 4 miles one way). The stream in that photo must be crossed to start the steep, steep hike through boulders and tree limbs, rocks and paths that fade into the landscape. Yes, we had been there before and said we would never do it again--a lesson, perhaps, on how we walk the same difficult paths over and over.
In the photo, look at the center through the nearer mountains and think about a trail going down there--stepping off into the air, no not quite, but it can feel as if you are.
Up is easier than down on those steep mountain paths. The same is true for me in life. It's easier to look up and be inspired than to delve into my unconscious for those selfish motivations clothed in helpfulness. You will not see photographs of the treks up and down this mountain path. Our concentration was focused on getting to the lakes, and then on getting down safely.
Early in the hike up, climbing onto a huge Boulder with little to grip other than the rock beneath my hands and feet, I froze. My hiking partner, ever ahead of me, helped me move.
Had that fear been too much we could have turned around and abandoned the hike.
On the downward trek, there were frozen seconds, minutes, frozen fear. "Take tiny steps," I sometimes heard my Yoga instructor's voice in my head say. I sat on my bottom and scooted when I could move no other way. I used my hands to lift my body over rocks or straight down the trail, as if I were a jackrabbit. (Yes, today my arms muscles are sore.)
My knees shook. I reminded my legs that I trusted them, my feet the same. They had safely carried me through 72 years. They would not fail me, would they? Of course not. At one point I was so tired, partly from fighting through the fear, that I wanted to cry. My hiking partner rarely cries so the next thought was that she would just die if I cried. Actually I was far enough behind her much of the way that she wouldn't have heard even loud sobs. But I don't cry easily either. So I didn't.
Fear was my visceral companion on the trek down that mountain path. In life, I learned early to ignore fear. In our small farmhouse, fear was its foundation. Fear of Mother's raging outbursts, of Dad's dark voice, his violence, were normal. Fear of what was next in the days and nights, one I soon learned to repress. I had learned early to walk through fear.
What lesson lies in that fear that has come down the mountain and rests with me in my writing room? Yes, the muscle soreness reminds me of the hike. But there must be a greater message. I've hiked steep paths on mountains and in life. I've pushed fear back as I learned in childhood, been oblivious. Today the fear shows up as a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat. I've stopped writing and spent time with this fear and what the Spirit is forcing me to see. She gets her ball bat out from time to time, when I am too pigheaded to do what's in front of me.
Yesterday walking the pathway down was necessary. It was the only way out. Today what is in front of me is writing. Not this writing, but that of adding the recent insights that have been given me to the memoir. When I am honest, I find myself more fearful of a "yes" from an agent than from more "nos." I'm accustomed to them. They leave me covered, protected from exposure. This is the fear that I must confront and walk through. It is that which is being asked of me today. Is there something in front of you on your path that you are avoiding? How does fear keep you stuck?
Fear can be holy, protective, warning. It can also keep us from finding our paths, from giving to the Universe that which only we can give. It can keep us from love--Divine love--in its deepest form--that place where we experience the joy that comes from giving to the world our true selves. Walk through the fear. There is peace and joy on the other side.
Now to my other writing.
Up is easier than down on those steep mountain paths. The same is true for me in life. It's easier to look up and be inspired than to delve into my unconscious for those selfish motivations clothed in helpfulness. You will not see photographs of the treks up and down this mountain path. Our concentration was focused on getting to the lakes, and then on getting down safely.
Early in the hike up, climbing onto a huge Boulder with little to grip other than the rock beneath my hands and feet, I froze. My hiking partner, ever ahead of me, helped me move.
Had that fear been too much we could have turned around and abandoned the hike.
On the downward trek, there were frozen seconds, minutes, frozen fear. "Take tiny steps," I sometimes heard my Yoga instructor's voice in my head say. I sat on my bottom and scooted when I could move no other way. I used my hands to lift my body over rocks or straight down the trail, as if I were a jackrabbit. (Yes, today my arms muscles are sore.)
My knees shook. I reminded my legs that I trusted them, my feet the same. They had safely carried me through 72 years. They would not fail me, would they? Of course not. At one point I was so tired, partly from fighting through the fear, that I wanted to cry. My hiking partner rarely cries so the next thought was that she would just die if I cried. Actually I was far enough behind her much of the way that she wouldn't have heard even loud sobs. But I don't cry easily either. So I didn't.
Fear was my visceral companion on the trek down that mountain path. In life, I learned early to ignore fear. In our small farmhouse, fear was its foundation. Fear of Mother's raging outbursts, of Dad's dark voice, his violence, were normal. Fear of what was next in the days and nights, one I soon learned to repress. I had learned early to walk through fear.
What lesson lies in that fear that has come down the mountain and rests with me in my writing room? Yes, the muscle soreness reminds me of the hike. But there must be a greater message. I've hiked steep paths on mountains and in life. I've pushed fear back as I learned in childhood, been oblivious. Today the fear shows up as a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat. I've stopped writing and spent time with this fear and what the Spirit is forcing me to see. She gets her ball bat out from time to time, when I am too pigheaded to do what's in front of me.
Yesterday walking the pathway down was necessary. It was the only way out. Today what is in front of me is writing. Not this writing, but that of adding the recent insights that have been given me to the memoir. When I am honest, I find myself more fearful of a "yes" from an agent than from more "nos." I'm accustomed to them. They leave me covered, protected from exposure. This is the fear that I must confront and walk through. It is that which is being asked of me today. Is there something in front of you on your path that you are avoiding? How does fear keep you stuck?
Fear can be holy, protective, warning. It can also keep us from finding our paths, from giving to the Universe that which only we can give. It can keep us from love--Divine love--in its deepest form--that place where we experience the joy that comes from giving to the world our true selves. Walk through the fear. There is peace and joy on the other side.
Now to my other writing.
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