photo taken years ago . . .

The wind is howling, yowling, slamming windows, bringing down trees and generally kicking up a hell of a fuss. And? Add in arctic temperatures-- ARC.TIC.

It has been like this all day-- I came out of the grocery store midday and was slapped full in the face, my eyes peppered with salt and sand. To get back to my car I had to hold my grocery sack in front of my face and hope nobody decided to back out of their parking spot as I trudged blindly by.

Right now, however, I am downstairs next to Esse who has been eating wood like a beaver on a bender. There's a very good chance I may just sleep down here tonight-- and soon, as I took a shot of NyQuil before starting this post (you've been warned)-- but before I do, I have some odd need to share where I'm at.

It's not a particularly good place-- although it certainly isn't a bad place-- rather, it is that mile from the finish line most people don't talk about. There's no shortage of material about starting off on an adventure and no few books about the rewards of completing an adventure-- but what I am feeling right now is how exposed, fragile, and exhausted you get when you've been swimming for hours to cross the lake and the shore is still not in sight and it would be so simple to simply stop.

What possessed you to even begin this journey? The thought repeats over and over. What a waste of time. What hubris. What were you thinking? What will other people think?

And you know, YOU know that last one is the bell that tells me how far gone I am because if there is one thing I know about myself is that I am indifferent to the opinions of others even when I should really care.

But here I am-- and I chose the photo above (I have no new photos to share) because it reminds me of a time not so long ago--- freer in so many respects-- that walk was just a walk. The road looks there very much like it did yesterday with thick, white snow pulling every inch of every branch down toward the earth. I was also not free, in many senses-- and oh man the NyQuil has kicked in and I can hardly type.

I wanted to capture that taking risks is hard. You must expose yourself. You must put yourself, you, on the line--- and say-- this is me, for all to hear. I've done it enough times now you would think I've gotten more comfortable with the process-- but there is no getting comfortable-- not if you are constantly pushing yourself into new territory-- not if the risk you are taking is genuine.

Doh, risks are hard, you might be thinking-- girlfriend, shut the laptop and go to bed, you are embarrassing yourself. And that, is the point.

It is embarrassing to take risks-- the very word embarrass is derived from the French to block or obstruct. Because god forbid we do something that is socially unacceptable.

And yet, how else can we grow if we do not push against those constraints?

All I know is (as I seem to have been born to find every fence in the yard so that I can mow it down) that the only shame is if I don't act in accordance with my truth and that actions based in anything but truth are all I have to fear.

And, that sometimes, it is only in the risk taking that I discover what my core truths are and, that the truth, to paraphrase Wendell Berry, is always larger, sometimes difficult and often more inscrutable than we may have liked-- but that truth, is always good to know.

Bisous, E

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