Climbing to the High Dive
Most days, when I sit down to write, I have little to no idea what words are going to appear on the page. Step one isn’t knowing; step one is showing up. I don’t love this. It reminds me of being ten years old, climbing the steps to the high dive, compelled to prove to myself (again) that I could do it, even though I found it terrifying. To make matters worse for ten-year-old me, I wasn’t jumping into the clear water of a pool, I was jumping into the murky water of a manmade lake. Not being able to see the bottom somehow required an extra dose of courage to jump. Similarly, it’s the lack of clarity when I show up to write that delivers the intimidation, yet here I am. Cue the confetti: Here I am.
The other day, my Facebook memories showed me something I wrote nine years ago about trusting the trail -- how when you’re out hiking and you don’t really know where you’re going, all you can do is trust the trail you’re on. What are you going to do -- freak out mid-hike that you’re not at the end, or that the trail might not lead where you think it will? The reality is that to get from A to Z, you’re going to find yourself at K and O and W, and you really can’t be anywhere else. Why get frustrated by being at K when K is a necessary step toward Z? Everything is process -- hiking, writing, and jumping into the deep end. But so is living, and that’s where I run into real trouble.
I am staring at the things I want to be different in my life, the things I’ve wanted to be different for a long, long time, and friends, they are not different. They are not one bit different, and not for lack of trying. I am worn out from process. This is where I am, and it feels a little like somewhere along the way, I chose the wrong trail. Now, I know that I am different, even if the trail looks a lot the same, but sometimes you have to ask yourself how much growing does one person need to do? (Sigh. Apparently I am being hideously honest this morning, plunging toward the bottom of these murky waters.) Also, I apparently don’t make the call on exactly how much growing I need to do.
Because I find myself in a Groundhog Day scenario of process with little in terms of visible outcomes, I come face to face with the truth almost daily that all I can do is show up -- for writing, and for living. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful life here, and because I’ve been discouraged lately, I am reminding myself to notice just how gorgeous this particular trail is. When I’m hiking, I’m not out there to get back to my car; I’m out to enjoy the hike. Today is just like that. I’m here for the beautiful process of living.
To keep myself in line with presence and with showing up, I’ve begun using the meditation app Centering Prayer. I love it because I can set the opening and closing sounds to birdsong, which makes me stupidly happy, and the app keeps the time, so I don’t have to worry about it. This allows me to surrender to what I am doing -- meditating -- meaning I don’t have to try to keep one part of my brain out of meditation to remain in the timekeeper role. Aah! Now I see that I have come to the whole point of what I’m writing about this morning. Here it is: I don’t have to keep the time, and neither do you.
We get to show up and live, notice how beautiful it is in these parts, and we also get to surrender the role of timekeeping for the outcomes we’re looking for. Instead, we just keep doing the work we’re called to do. Outcomes are not really our purview (all of us have so much less control that we think we do), and neither is their timing. Do I love that? No, not one bit. I’m guessing you might not either, but, oddly enough, our feelings are not really in charge.
Here’s a poem for you:
Wait for the Bell to Ring Sparrows and lilies wear no watches and you — the clay I imbued with being know evening, morning winter and summer but not the breath before the daffodil pushes through earth Did you form yourself? Light the divine spark within? Can you do that one simple task — add a single hour to your life? Then why would I appoint you timekeeper? I know when the bullfrogs emerge from mud in spring, when bloodroot thrusts through the ground Do I not count their days? The instrument of my attention never rusts The mechanism does not stick, or wear out Do the tides ever fail? Do you tell the heron when to hatch? Did you know when your water would break? Stop looking for the clock It’s a face you have not learned to read
Here we are, friends. Let’s show up for what today is asking of us. Sometimes that’s as brave as climbing the steps to the high dive.
xo
I’ll leave you with this. It’s a word for someone: The other night, I picked up my youngest from his cousin’s house, and he told me all about the Chelsea game they’d been watching. They were in extra time, and at 105 minutes, the game was still tied 1-1. And then, in the second period of extra time, Chelsea scored (I will spare you the particulars, which I was given in great detail); then Chelsea scored again, and again. Someone is in the 105th minute, and you just don’t know yet that you’re about to score -- not once, but three times.