Your Trail.

If you were lucky enough to have a trail named after you, what message would you convey through the terrain? Mine would begin deep in the forest, to give what every human spirit yearns for- to be absorbed and enveloped inside a beautiful living thing.

Ewoldsen Trail, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park

It would climb up steep switchbacks, and the top would have sweeping views that overlooked the fog. A reminder that clarity exists above the muck and confusion.

It would curve along the coastline with the vast ocean below because to feel small, but somehow significant, is one of the most honest expressions of truth. Mine would tell a story. In every language. Without any words.

McWay Falls, Big Sur

Ewoldsen Trail captured this story perfectly. 

Lighten the Load.

Coastal Trail, Marin Headlands

The fog was thick this morning, but I could still see a man's silhouette standing at the edge of a distant mountain. I stopped running and watched him, my breath still heavy. I saw his arm swing back, then in a powerful fit, hurl something into the abyss of the ocean. He reached down. And once again, as though trying to throw farther than before, he twisted his body and forcefully launched an object out from the cliff as the grey waves below swallowed it up. I stood and watched him for awhile until he was finished and turned back up the path.

This image burned in my mind the whole day. How we no longer have to carry unnecessary weight and burdens. We can remove the heavy stones from our 'packs' that we've accumulated through the years- the debris and weight we've dragged along with us from broken relationships, unkept promises, shame, guilt- and release them. Hurl them wildly away from us, out of our possession, and surrender them into something wider, deeper, vaster.

"Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous be shaken." 

Psalm 55:22

And then, with lightness in our steps, we can finally be free. Free from our shackled past. Free to gather only what we need and continue on our journey. Free to fully become who we were created to be.

In This Moment.

“There is a moment, a cusp, when the sum of gathered experience is worn down by the details of living. We are never so wise as we are when we live in this moment.”
— Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air

Morning Sun Trail, Marin Headlands

Last week I finished reading the book "When Breath Becomes Air." It's one of those books that I knew I wanted to buy- just so I could freely underline Paul Kalanithi's poetic and lyrical style of writing and have it at my fingertips for the moments when that dulled sense of perspective comes over my life.  To remind me again of how keeping our own mortality/death in the forefront helps us live more consciously and purposefully.

It changed me. And I think it will change you too.

Memory.

Wine Country Century 2016, Sonoma County

Wine Country Century 2016, Sonoma County

Have you ever smelled the perfume or cologne of someone you once loved and suddenly you're transported back into time? Your pulse quickens. The same visceral feelings flood back through your veins. You hear the sound of their laugh, fondly remember the way their eyes crinkled, and how safe you felt in their embrace? Scent locks in memories like a treasure chest.

In biking, certain roads hold that same power. It's all etched in stone, and once my wheels roll over that part of the road, it unlocks specific conversations I had, or how I felt mentally years ago racing that same section. Riding up Chalk Hill yesterday, it was only the sound of gears turning over and heaving breathing. But I swear I could hear cowbells and loud cheering and people screaming from the sidelines- You're almost at the top! Keep going! Don't quit! 

Memory baffles me at times. How quickly it can be erased. How quickly it returns with the smallest trigger, or on the slightest of whims.

Wherever You Go, There You Are.

"Wherever you go, there you are." It's a truth that's both liberating and terrifying. I thought about this while riding the coast last Monday. If nothing was chaining you to a place- no mortgage, significant other, kids, permanent career, and you had the choice to transplant, where would you go?

It's a good question. It extracted me from autopilot mode and forced me to observe my life in detail. Challenged me to evaluate what makes a life rewarding and full.

By Thursday I was convinced. I'm moving to Portland. 

Or maybe Bend.

The cost of living is less. I'd start fresh in a new city on my own terms versus being unexpectedly uprooted. People would know me only starting with my smile. It would test my sense of self in the largest possible way. Without social context and history that people construct of you over time, you're essentially a clean slate. Some artists are paralyzed by the blank page. I find it ripe with potential, bursting with possibility. In Oregon, I'd explore new trails and write in quaint corner coffee shops and make new friends with the locals and learn how to mountain bike. I'd have to be brave and adventurous and ask for help.

And yet I fundamentally knew what I'd be leaving behind. We are meant to have tribes, to be among people who've witnessed the undulations of our lives. Who know our stories. Walked us through devastation and helped resurrect us from the ashes. Who genuinely care for us. I have that here. I have my 'joy network,' as a friend aptly called it. My family. Triathletes to celebrate with after races who inquire about the details- what was my mantra? How did I feel exiting the swim? A guitarist who practices songs so we can perform at open mics together. A lovely writer friend who sips tea with me and meticulously combs through my work and gives me constructive feedback to make me better.  PK, who cultivates curiosity and celebrates my small wins- when I was finally able to meditate longer than five minutes and stopped eating processed lunchmeat- and who teaches me how to move through this world by her own example. My friend who climbs rocks with me and listens to my endless stream of consciousness ideas and challenges me to read science fiction. It's true. No single person can possibly fulfill all of these multi-faceted parts of our lives that make us feel seen and heard and understood. We need a network. A joy network. So what makes someone just abandon their existing tribe to leave and start from scratch?

All of this was swarming in my head. The desire to have novelty in my life, mixed with adventure. Torn between having the luxury of freedom and independence, yet aware of my desire for partnership. Later on in the day, my friend held my hand and looked into my confused eyes and said, "Oh, Julianne, you're already whole. You're spinning on an axis in a beautiful way, already complete. You're just looking for the perfect place to lay down your roots." I could only nod. I had no words.

I like this wishbone-shaped tree because it reminds me that we have agency over our lives. Wishbones rarely crack in your favor. Wishes are good for birthday candles. But for my life, I want to make conscious, deliberate and well-planned choices. Thrive and stretch towards the sun. Put my roots down in fertile soil and trust they'll firmly intertwine with my joy network, wherever that may be.

Glass Beach.

Glass Beach, Fort Bragg

Glass Beach, Fort Bragg

Glass Beach offers a visual reminder of how some art can only be created through the transformational process of breaking. I watch kids and adults alike, hunched over, sifting through the sand and searching for pieces of colorful broken glass. Radiant shards illuminate the sun and woo people towards them.

The most beautiful and whole-hearted individuals I know are those whose lives have been shattered in some shape or form. The difficult times we fear will destroy us are very often the ones that break us open and allow us to redefine who we were meant to be.

I am drawn to these people. They have known loss and tragedy and have a deeper understanding of what it means to be human. I want to pick them out from the plethora of grey rocks. Hold them in my hand. Admire their beauty.

The Journey.

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

 

-Mary Oliver