Romanticizing the Moment
intimacy beyond illusion
While traveling around the southwest a couple of years ago, I was told by a Santa Fe local that people are called to the desert to do their inner work. The example given to me was in observing the way a saguaro cactus holds its arms up in complete surrender. The space there is so wide open from one expansive horizon to the other that there aren’t many places for you to hide from your self when you’re there.
I am now living in a small village in the northwestern part of Michigan called Empire. My house is in the woods, surrounded by trees and tall ferns and a hammock right outside of my bedroom window. The road is barely visible from my front door, though I suspect that will shift as the trees let go of their leaves for the winter. Beyond my neighborhood, rolling hills lead you to neighboring towns like waves carrying a boat adrift.
About a mile’s walk from my house, there are sand dunes that belong to the Sleeping Bear Dunes Wilderness/National Lakeshore that stand between the village and Lake Michigan. Dunes that, in some areas, are 450 feet above the lake itself. Once you’ve climbed the dunes however? A wide open expanse of layered blues as far as the eye can see that meet at the horizon. One part water, one part sky. If we did not have maps, you could not tell me this lake was not an ocean.
The saguaro cactus and its desert home have been coming in to my awareness over the last couple of months as I build a relationship with this Northern Michigan land. Their characteristics should be stark in contrast, especially considering the lakeshore and the desert have one major differentiating factor: water.
But I walk along the beaches and dunes here and feel no different than I did in the deserts of New Mexico, the canyons of Arizona, or the rocky yucca forests in Joshua Tree. Vulnerable, visible, exposed. Even further inland, surrounded by trees, I feel like I can not protect my self from being seen.
Though I’ve frequented this area having grown up and lived many years just a couple of hours south, grounding in to its energy and calling it “home” is an entirely different experience. Even the locals here refer to a certain “Empire magic” as if we are living in a portal that just proliferates weird shit. The forests here feel so enchanted I swear there are fairies and forest nymphs ushering me along every path and trail, hardly able to contain themselves with the knowledge of what awaits me.
It’s quiet here, slow, and still. Even as the wind wildly picks up in force some days as it comes howling off of the lake, there is something in me that remains unmoved in it and I become acutely aware of how much space exists in its power. I can not help but to get out amongst it as much as I possibly can to take it all in.
At the same time it all feels really unnerving. All of this space and time and quiet. Every distraction removed. Only the necessities exist here; one gas station, one library, one tavern, one post office, one pizza shop, and thank god for the one chocolate shop. In this house, there must always be chocolate.
There is also the fact that there is a particular radius around my home that is accessible to me whether by foot or by bike due to my car and me parting ways at the beginning of this adventure. Incase you missed last week’s newsletter, Cliff’s Notes version is that my car was totaled on the night of my arrival in Empire due to an unfortunate run-in with a deer. I wrote that I haven’t been able to see the forest for the trees. That for as good as I usually am at reading the signs, this particular event left me clueless. And my inability to travel very far has made the quiet even louder. The space magnified. The stillness more disruptive.
I’m usually one to seek adventure. I don’t mind a long drive, a hike that goes on for miles, bike rides that go on for hours, or camping for days at a time. I used to grab my camera and just drive. I love an open road, endless wilderness, and no cell phone service. My car was my trusted steed. It allowed me to access so many of the things that make me feel like me. Without it, I feel stripped bare. Powerless. Incapable. It makes me want to hide.
In exploring these sensations over the weekend, I realized that I still assign so much of my worth and identity to things outside of me. A car, a job, money; these were the things I was still using to gauge my worth. Or rather, in my subconscious mind, the lack of these things are a reflection of my worth.
It became soberingly clear to me when my roommate and I attended an event in our neighboring town that was a party for the fall release of a local publication. It was full of what we called “our people.” People our age, who clearly shared our interests, who seemed interesting and care about similar things. I later told my roommate one of the first thoughts I had upon arriving was that if any of those people knew I didn’t have a job or a car, they’d probably never even talk to me. A thought that, after several days of processing, still pairs with a lump in my throat.
Who am I without a car? Who am I as someone who is still without a job? Without a business that can fully support me? Who am I to others if they really knew my situation? What do I even have to offer as a human being if I’m not contributing to society in the form of “work”? What is worth, and where does it come from? I’ll be 36 on Friday and these questions at this point in my life feel surprising.
My move to Empire feels like the Universe has placed a ginormous mirror in front of me at all times and there is no where I can run or hide. I’m seeing my self now beyond illusions I’ve held on to for a long time. Some of my deepest wounding. I’m facing a lot of identity I formed around capitalism as these illusions die and as I continuing moving forward into a newer paradigm that does not leave me asking if I’m enough, if I’ve doing enough, whether I’ve fallen behind everyone else because my life does not look like theirs, and letting go of guilt and shame associated with the day of the week. One of the most poignant questions I’ve been asking my self lately, and putting to practice, is whether I can access as much ease and freedom and joy on weekdays as I do on the weekends and trust that no matter the day of the week it is, I will hear my intuition and know what to do to use my energy in a way that feels good to me. No matter the day of the week, I can trust my self.
No matter the day of the week, I can trust my self.
A lot of that self trust just looks like romanticizing my life. Waking up every day and choosing joy. Acknowledging when I don’t know what to do and allowing my self to choose whatever will bring me joy in that moment. Sometimes I can ground in to my body and find so much safety there that the absolute wonderment of our existence brings me to tears. I can’t believe I get to be alive along side the millions of blades of grass right outside my bedroom window. All of these trees and me decided to be here in the same time and space, breathing the same air but exchanging the opposite aspects of it; a most perfect symbiotic relationship and I am enamored.
When I really think about it, I know that there is a perfect timing to everything. Everything in my life has always worked out, though most of the time in ways I could have never planned it. If I truly sat down and made a list, everything I’ve ever wanted has always arrived right on time and in magical ways. It usually took me opening up to being surprised by the Universe, releasing my attachment to how I think it should happen, trusting that the Universe will deliver and take care of me, and choosing to live joyfully while I wait.
No matter the day of the week, I can trust the Universe.
All of this to say, the death of an illusion is a gift. The lists I make that outline my inherent worth are a gift. Surrendering even more to the Great Mystery is a gift. My ability to alchemize energy - a gift. To shift all of my frustration and resistance for where I’m at to joy and hope and trust. To get to practice. To get to forgive my self, over and over and over again. Gifts.
It does not take traveling to the desert to do your work. You do not need a saugaro cactus to show you how to raise your arms to the sky, to surrender, to release your grasp on your life. You can let go in the comfort of your own home, even if it’s surrounded by trees. Even if you can not see the horizon without climbing a sand dune or a mountain. Even if three days from your birthday you’re questioning your worth. Even if you need to make lists to remind you of who you are.
Even if you don’t know what day it is, you can trust your self.
Tallyho,
Jenny