The bubble is the wave

The ladybug is the mountain

It is at this time I usually buckle.

Historically, it might go something like this:

I slow down my pace with you, but I don’t let you notice. Eventually, we’re not walking forward together anymore. We have subtly come to a slow stop. I’ve done this gradually because I didn’t want you to see what I’m planning. I plan to stay back while you continue on. I employ my various tactics to convince you it’s best for both of us to go our separate ways. Even better if I get you to think it’s your idea.

I’ve done this with many relationships, jobs, geographical locations, extra curricular activities, and creative projects.

It’s always really beautiful and clear in the beginning. I see you, and you see me. It’s the sparks. We are vibrant with each other. Maybe we are even the best version of ourselves. It’s new and fresh. It’s pulsing. It is a time when divine alignment happens.

“I’ve been waiting for a love like this.”

“I got the job offer.”

“They asked me to play.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“We’re engaged.”

“I’ve talked about doing ~~~ for a decade, and I’m finally doing it.”

“I’ve always wanted to ~~~, and now I know… it’s actually POSSIBLE.”

Photo by Wonderlane on Unsplash

The bright light.

I’ve had that starting this Substack. I have experienced it with you as I have shared my writing with the world for the first time in my 33 years of life on this earth.

It is not the brand new beginning anymore. Sure, maybe it’s the beginning in the grand scheme of things. It’s all relative. I am 14 weeks into this journey of Seeing Upside Down. I just finished Q1- the first quarter of my first year writing on Substack. How did I do that? This is awesome. Don’t read into this as bragging or puffing it up to be more than it is. In fact, let’s put a different tone to it, just for fun.

“I’m only 14 weeks into this. I’m not so committed that I couldn’t quit. People probably see that I’m that good of a writer anyway. Everyone would understand if I decided not to continue. This is what I always do. I have to try something out and see if it sticks. It won’t. Nothing ever sticks with me. Maybe I’m just supposed to float from thing to thing forever…”

That tone of voice is still one I hear regularly, almost always from inside of myself. Honestly, one could even argue that everything the voice said there is true in one way or another, based on my track record.

Tonight, I sit here and realize that the first few months of a consistent writing practice on Substack got me to the trailhead at the bottom of the mountain. I had to leave home and take a drive to get here. That part is always fun and exciting. Pack up. Drive away. Get outta Dodge. Put on some music and roll the windows down. I feel free with the whole world ahead of me. I ride the divine wave that beckoned me to hop on.

Now, I’m out of the car. My head comes down out of the clouds. My hiking boots stand on the dirt. I’ve got everything I need, yet I still feel like I’m forgetting something. I can’t even see the top of the mountain anymore, like I could see it on the drive up. I could still decide not to take this journey after all. I can still see my SUV in the parking lot. It would transport me right back to comfort if I don’t feel like I’m ready.

So many times in my life I have made it to the trailhead and, for whatever reason, I wasn’t ready to embark on the trail. I’ve gone back to whatever comfy, automatic vehicle I have at the time. I would freeze with resistance when it came time to actually trek. I pulled out of every parking lot and kept cruising from mountain to mountain, checking them out, but never getting close enough to make them my own.

It’s a blast to cruise and dream throughout life. Oh, the possibilities. Recently for me, I’ve experienced a new sensation of feeling tired of looking at things from a distance… something as majestic as a mountain or as stunning as the ocean. Remember, I talk in metaphors. So the mountain could represent a person I’ve held at arm’s length, or a creative project. The ocean could represent myself, who I truly am under all these masks I wear. Or maybe the ocean is the trip to Bali I want to take someday. When I start to know it’s possible to get closer, to experience something deeper, to know it, it’s only a matter of time before I finally decide to let it pull me all the way in.

Photo by Eric Muhr on Unsplash

Last week I did something I have done many times before. I announced something I’m going to do from a social platform. I shared publicly here on Substack that “I want to start writing my first book.” After my post went out, the fear chatter started in my head, in the form of other people’s imagined voices, like it usually does:

“Cool, Jeannie, you’re going to write a book. Snap snap. Clap clap. Best of luck with that. You mean like that time you were going to become a Spanish translator? Or when you were going to get your master’s and become a teacher in Denver? Or when you signed with a modeling agency and gave them all your money so they could make you a runway star? Or when you declared to your friends that you were ready to be a mom… five years ago? Or when you were going to be your own boss babe selling products on Instagram?”

See? I’ve done this before. I get to the point of declaration. I gather all the resources and affirmation I need. I lay the foundation. I get it all set up. I know that I can do it. I even start, wholeheartedly. I even make a bit of measurable progress.

What I didn’t realize until now is that the genesis of the thing, whatever it is, has always been the easy drive on the highway in the comfy SUV. It’s the wave of inspiration. I feel lucky that I’m always crazy enough to take the leap and ride it. I understand for some people that might be the hard part- working up the courage to jump on a passing wave and ride it… to begin… to start anything at all. I get that too. I’m just cut from a different cloth. For whatever reason, I’m always game to get on any wave. There are always inspiration waves going by for all of us. It’s only a matter of when and which ones we decide to hop on.

The hard part for me is staying up when the wave gets choppy. The hard part for me is walking deeper into the forest, putting more and more distance between me and my parked car in the trailhead parking lot. Can I step forward onto this trail, disappearing into the trees where I can’t even see what I’m climbing anymore? Can I let this wave engulf me to the point when I can’t even see through the water anymore?

One more breath will tell me yes. One more step will tell me yes. Another breath after that will tell me yes again. The step after that one will affirm me once more. Each breath counts. Each step counts. What is right in front of me is all I have to think about. It takes the crippling pressure off. I realize I can ease up and look around. I’m in this wave. It is glistening, almost in slow motion. I’m on this trail, and there are so many beautiful, living things to discover along the way. I start to see the infinite beauty in the details. I start to merge with the process.

Inevitably, I will drift back into daydreaming about the imagined victorious view from the summit of the mountain. Or I hope my friends on the shore see me come out of this wave like a badass- W-whoa, whoa… but then all of sudden I feel like I’m going to lose my balance. All of a sudden I start to feel tired. It takes away my energy focusing on somewhere I am not.

I come back to my breathing and notice the bubbles in the wave.

Photo by Kyrylo Kholopkin on Unsplash

I come back to my breathing and notice the ladybug on the trail.

Photo by Tetiana Strilchuk on Unsplash

That’s better. Hi bubbles. Hi ladybug. I think of Lennon Stella’s lyrics in her song Bubble:

Up high, in my bubble, I'm floating
So light, I'm a baby you're holding
Far away, I can fly away
I climb into my bubble it can't be broken

I digress, just a like a little kid who sees bubbles.

As I have also shared in this space, my yoga teacher training started this weekend. I’m in my first steps on the trail. I’m joined with the wave. I’m making tuition payments. I joined the pre-training call and met my cohort. I’m sitting here as the sun goes down on the night before the first day of training. The ladybugs in this moment are my cup of coffee, a flickering candle, and some music playing while I write. The peace and simplicity of the moments keep me centered, even though my nerves are trying to kick up and throw me off.

I want to apply this mentality to writing my book too. I’ve at least gotten to the trailhead again. I’m looking at a trail to a book this time. I know it is possible. I also know how easy it would be to not try at all. Then there would be no possibility of failing. After all, I’ve got plenty of other good things going. Substack feels good. Yoga feels good. I’m sober. Community feels good. Hell, I don’t have to write this book.

That’s right. I don’t have to write this book.

I skip over asking myself if I even want to or not.

Why? Because I know this book is already inside of me.

I feel crazy like the character in the Bible, Noah, when he knew he had to build an arc. What a crazy dude!

Welp. Call me crazy. I already have. Slimy doubt squeezes into every crack it can find to mute this inner knowing. I am aware that the more I listen to the doubt, the more I let its slime suffocate the inspiration trying to grow inside. Putting pressure on it suffocates it too.

So?

I’m doing my best to simply let the inspiration live there. I observe the tendency of doubt without feeding it or fighting it. I’ve already proven to myself that I can’t rush this little organism, just like a new mother can’t rush a real baby growing inside of her. I can feed it nutrients or I can feed it toxins. One thing I can’t do is make it grow any faster. I might as well stay relaxed in the process.

It is at this time I usually buckle.

But look how pretty these bubbles are.

with love, Jeannie