Turning my back on the Grand Canyon (Steph's day two)

It was put to me like this: "You've just barely crawled out of a pit, like, the size of the Grand Canyon. Now you're deciding what to do next. You can live a more beautiful, easier life. Or you can climb back down into the canyon."
What is comfortable--what seems easy and feels safe--is to turn straight back and go muck around in the depths some more. Where I know I won't be challenged, or acknowledged, or met halfway; but where I won't be challenged, or acknowledged, or met halfway.
The idea of the Grand Canyon gnawed at me while I did the daily things, including cleaning in preparation to have guests, which is scary to me. Not cleaning. But having people over. It just is.

Some of you are familiar with Ignite Boulder. Submissions for "sparks," or speaking topics, opened today. I thought about it, and felt scared. I looked at the submission process, and it was simple. So I submitted. If my topic is accepted, I'll be presenting 20 slides in five minutes at the Boulder Theater in May. In front of 600 or so people. Dear God. I texted some friends with my braveness and needing to borrow props. Know what I got in return? "I've no doubt you could do it and ROCK," and "you can always count on me." Awww...seriously?

Art Night was intimate: me and Mia. I asked her to bring Epsom salt and rubbing alcohol. She presented these to me with an inquisitive "ingrown toenail?" But no: along the lines of not taking any steps back, I'd been instructed to smudge my house. For the uninitiated: burning something--usually sage--and saying a few words about clearing negative energy. The salt and alcohol attracts the negative ions or something. We tried it, with much laughter, and either it was us getting up and walking around with a pan of fire or it actually worked, because we both felt the air was "lighter" following. We also did some art. 

And then these arrived. No joke, not making this up, truth stranger than fiction and all that. So very beautiful, these roses. A souvenir from the road less taken, about five minutes after I chose it. Freaky.

Steph's beginning

What Lynsey said is true: I enjoy the company of Gwen, the Irish Wolfhound and am not big on social hugging. I could tell you all about my past accomplishments, but I don't they are what brought me here, to this blog. Lynsey knows: I'm straddling the equator of major change. I'm being broken open, again. I’m freaked clear out of my skin nearly every day.

About me: I write. I read. I photograph. I co-parent a seven year old girl and a ten year old boy, one week on, one week off, and have an exceptionally amicable relationship with the ex.

I’ve done some way cool things: jumped off a bridge (on a dare) into the Middle Fork of the Salmon in Idaho. Moved places alone, where I knew no one. Traveled alone, a lot. Met the most interesting people. These adventures don’t scare me but scare others, and make them think I’m brave. What keeps me up at night are the things that everyone else does with grace and apparent ease. Like going to the grocery, or keeping a schedule.

At the end of the day, I’m just a girl, with a pen and a camera and an inquisitive mind, trying to get everything right and failing. Might as well share.

There are post-it notes all over the living room with writing ideas for this next month, and they all seem deal with much more of an interior landscape. If you have suggestions for me, please! Post them here, send me an email, call me up, meet me for coffee. I hope it’s not boring. Let’s see, shall we?

Tomorrow, I’m tackling a real, live freaky thing.

Lynsey--let's just call this all of March

Oh, hi there.  Come here often?  Clearly I don’t.

Well, March was a bitch.  Not just any bitch either.  March was that “friend” that hurts your feelings and drives you crazy and even though she doesn’t deserve to consume your thoughts, there she is, every damn day, making you want to cry and tear your hair out at the same time.  Nice to your face—oh, look birds and flowers and spring!—but she’s already started whispering about you before your back is even turned—haha—snow!  How do you like that??

I didn’t hold up my end of the deal here—no two ways about that.  I wrote a couple of posts.  I deleted them.  I wrote others in my head.  Those never made it to the virtual page.  Or rather, the blank email where I write everything because it has the auto spell check and my brain thinks better in email format.  I thought about things that scared me every single day.  My intentions were there, but my mind just couldn’t wrap around it.  Oh, you ask for proof?

Well, I thought I fell in love.  Doesn’t really matter if I did or didn’t.  Point is that I am not now.  And the whole process of that was damn scary.

After that went to hell in a hand basket, I dated.  People, dating is scary.  I have 30 dating stories alone that could work as fuel for this blog’s fire, but I will spare you all but this one:  I find myself at a tequila bar with a man who I know to be tall, successful, and funny in text.  We are there because he said “do you like tequila?” and I said “yes”.  Because I do.  So, here we are, sitting at a table at this tequila bar in The People’s Republic.  I knew we weren’t going to be doing body shots or anything, but when someone says “do you like tequila”, I’m thinking of course-- Jose and I are good friends.  The menu is crazy complicated and my plan of ordering a margarita is clearly not going to be well received.  So, I tell the man to surprise me.  Takes him, no joke, 15 minutes to come up with an order of two different kinds of tequila that he orders “with training wheels” (I’ll save you the trouble—it means lime and salt.  Yeah, I didn’t know that one either.).  They show up in these tiny little glasses which we will be sharing (so not my thing on a first date).  I taste one as instructed and I am asked, “what do you taste?”.  And so I tell him.  I taste tequila.  This brings on an eye roll so massive, I was concerned he would get whiplash.  So I asked him what he tastes.  Floral, vanilla, oak, with a peppery finish.  Okay, no one knows what oak tastes like.  For all we know, it tastes like chocolate.  I mean, when was the last time you licked a tree?  So, I play along and taste it again and tell him that I totally get the oak.  This little charade lasted longer than I care to admit.  The scariest part being that I will never get those 3 hours of my life back.

I said no a lot more often than I usually do. (Clearly not to men appearing to be funny and interesting, wanting to take me to tequila bars, but still.)  This is scary because, you see, I must control everything.

Sometimes you get caught up in the excitement of the feeling of a tribe and you confuse mere acquaintances with true friends.  So I reevaluated and made sure that the time I was spending on my friendships were the friendships I was wanting to have.  Scary to say to yourself that somehow this person is in my life, but I don’t really care for them and/or they make me feel awful.

I let go.  I chatted with the ex-husband without worrying about what he thought or how he could use my words against me.  I let the kids each cookies for dinner (not every day, just for the record).  I asked for what I needed and politely excused the people out of my life who couldn’t return what I was giving.  I said some important things to some important people—things that have been weighing me down for a long time—things that were scary to say.  I let the universe have a turn at taking care of stuff and I just enjoyed the view.  (Crazy universe--knowing how to drive and all that. ;)

And finally, I accepted.  I accepted that I am, as someone recently put it “uniquely off-kilter”.  This artist mind that I have been rejecting for years has come in and taken over and for the first time, I am not kicking it out.  This crazy desire to create consumes me, and my thoughts race, and I get overwhelmed with the can I’s and should I’s.  I am pretty decent at math.  I can fix most basic computer issues.  I know enough about business to get by.  But at the end of the day, I will be known for my creativity.  And for the first time in my life, I accept that and understand that it’s not less than other qualities.  I never have what I was supposed to bring, I take notes on gum wrappers, and the concept of time almost feels like punishment.  But sing me your song, show me your painting, tell me your stories, and I’ll get it.  And I’ll appreciate it—I’ll appreciate you.  Because I am….deep breath, everybody hold on…..an Artist.  I am a working artist that makes a living creating art.  Okay, that was scary as all get-out, but I said it. 

And that’s 30 freaking days of scary and then some.