Writing

A few years ago, I decided to start saying “yes” to more things that used to make me afraid. Not like scary Halloween kinds of things but things that other people seem to enjoy that my anxious self could only envision turning into disaster. Living with anxiety makes even potential fun seem dangerous and I lived that way for a long time. Anxiety medication has helped me get over the hesitation of saying “yes,” which means I say “yes” more often now to things I might not have considered saying “yes” to before. 

But that doesn’t mean everything turns out perfectly or that I still don’t have some moments where I regret the “yes.”

My most recent “yes” that challenged me happened on a beautiful creek in the mountains of Pennsylvania on a typical fall day–a little sunshine, a little rain, a little chilly temps, leaves turning just a bit. I was away from home for the weekend with a group of friends from book club, our first such getaway since I’ve been part of the group, a chance to get to know each other better and connect with nature and just take care of ourselves for a time. (We love our families and we’re exhausted. Maybe you can relate.)

We arrived at the cabin (think modern conveniences, not rustic camping) in the dark so it wasn’t until the next morning that the full scope of our surroundings was evident. I looked out the window and almost gasped. (I say “almost” because others in the house were still asleep.) I made a cup of coffee, slid on my flip-flops, walked the short distance from the house to the creek’s edge and marveled. 

How could such beauty not only exist but be so accessible? I dream of places where I can walk out on a balcony or porch and be faced with natural elements like water and woods. This was breathtaking.

I had already told my companions that I was not much for water sports and there was talk of kayaking the creek, if it was high enough. After wandering out to the banks of the creek, I decided I wanted to get to know that creek better. I had never kayaked before, so it was a chance to say “yes” to something new and experience nature more closely. This is why I love hiking because I feel more of a connection to nature when I’m walking through it and on it rather than viewing from afar. Kayaking, I thought, would be a similar experience.

We divided ourselves into two groups–there were five of us and three kayaks–and I was one of the first three to go. Among the group of three that I went with, one was an experienced kayaker, the other had not done it in a long time, and I was the newbie. Kayaking always looked fun and peaceful when I saw people’s pictures on socials, so that was my expectation going into it.

Expectations are unreliable sometimes.

We hauled the kayaks from the barn to the bank and I not-so-gracefully stepped in to the vessel and situated myself. 

I hadn’t gone far when I got stuck on the rocks. The creek was low but we thought it would be higher closer to the mountain side of the creek on the other side. After a solid push, I was on the water.

The feeling of being in the middle of the creek with a mountain on one side was soul-fulfilling and wondrous. We saw a heron right away and as we glided by, I was in awe of how close we got to it without scaring it. The creek carried us downstream and I enjoyed the pace of the journey.

The bottom of my kayak kept scraping the rocks and I worried I would get stuck. We hadn’t been on the creek long when we approached a spot I want to call “rapids” but that seems dramatic. The water flowed over and around some large rocks making for some tricky maneuvering I wasn’t prepared for. I worried about tipping the kayak and falling in the creek. Even though it was shallow, I don’t like to be wet without intention (like in a shower or a pool). I made it through the first area like this and breathed deeply, suspecting that maybe I was not on the sort of peaceful journey I was expecting.

As we went along, we saw two bald eagles soaring above us, landing in the trees nearby.

The sun peeked through the trees and I was reminded again of the beauty and peace this place had to offer.

And then I got stuck.

The kayak scraped the bottom and I ran up against a large rock and I could not get free. My two companions were farther up the creek, and I didn’t want to disturb the peace, so I didn’t call out for them. I wasn’t worried about getting lost or not finding them at the end of the journey. I knew the creek would lead me to them. 

But I did panic about being stuck. I wiggled and jiggled myself in the kayak trying to shimmy it loose. I poked my oar in the creek and tried to leverage it to push myself out. I exerted great effort. I cursed the creek I had just admired in wonder. I could have gotten out and pushed but I worried about slipping on the rocks and hurting myself. The negative soundtrack in my head started to play: you’re not strong enough for this. You’re not fit for kayaking. Maybe if you weighed less you wouldn’t have gotten stuck. Why would you ever try something new? Didn’t you know it would turn out like this?

My friend, the experienced kayaker, stopped up ahead when she saw I was behind. I thought I was ruining the trip for my companions. 

Finally, I got free, but instead of enjoying myself, I was now angry.

“Are you okay?” my friend asked when I caught up to her.

Through tears (I was now crying) I said, “No, but I will be.”

—

As long as I can remember, I have been drawn to water. I don’t know what this says about me, if it’s a product of growing up in a place with a river literally running through the middle of the town or if it’s got anything to do with personality or astrology, I just know that if there is water, I want to be near it. Lake, ocean, creek, pond, river … I’m not particular. Water does something for my soul.

When it comes to being in the water, I am much more hesitant. I am not a strong swimmer. I fear drowning. Water is a force that could easily overwhelm me and I like to be in control. I love being on the water as long as someone else is driving the boat. When we’re on vacation, we try to take a ferry or some other kind of boat ride every year as an unofficial “requirement” of the trip. Some day, I think I’d like to take some kind of cruise to experience the vastness of the water. I don’t think I need all the cruise ship entertainment, just the ocean and its endlessness. Maybe an ancestor of mine was a sailor.

Being on the water with someone else powering the vessel is relaxing for me. I can literally sit back and take in the beauty all around me. 

This is what I thought kayaking would be.

Instead, it was a lot of work.

—

Why was I crying?

I don’t think tears are good or bad in and of themselves, but I do think they can be indicators. Something rose to the surface in me while I was struggling to get the kayak unstuck. What was it?

The answer was clear and completely uncomfortable: I resist taking charge of my own life.

I relish being a passive observer. At least, I think I do. That sounds easy and if something goes wrong, then it’s not my problem to fix, especially if someone else is at the helm. I’m perfectly content to let life happen to me and all around me.

Because being an active participant in your life takes work. And sometimes it’s hard. And sometimes you get stuck. And sometimes it’s frustrating to try to get yourself unstuck. And sometimes I want someone else to step in and come to the rescue and fix whatever is broken with a snap of their fingers.

But that’s not how life works. At least, not in my experience.

And that’s not really what I want. When I turned 40 I made a list, not of things to do before I die but just of intentions and experiences and things I want to do. Period. I don’t want a literal deadline on these things because I want to experience life for the pleasure of now not for the fear of the future.

When I made that list, it was so that I wouldn’t have any excuses or regrets for living the kind of life I wanted. So, when did I drift back into the passive observer mode?

This is what surfaced while I was stuck in the shallow water of the creek: I was on my own to get unstuck. There was no one to rescue me. Not my friends who were farther down the creek. Not my husband, who was more than three hours away. Not any member of my family. Not even a stranger or another kayaker. It was just me and the creek and my stuck kayak.

And I was terrified that I didn’t have the skills or the strength to get myself out of this situation. I was faced with the fear of my own inadequacy. And I realized that most of the time, I only try things that I think I’ll be good at or that won’t prove overly challenging because then I can’t fail. It’s really easy to look like you’re mastering life when you don’t take on any kind of challenge. When you always choose the path of least resistance. When the easy road becomes the comfortable road.

I stopped running when it got more difficult.

I don’t work on my novels because writing is hard and the payoff is unseen, at best, unknown, at worst.

I quit trying to learn sign language because it’s frustrating to learn a new language. (Of course it is.)

I don’t even want to try to buy a house because the process is terrifying and change is complicated, even when it’s good.

I choose the easier things because they are easy. I’m not saying I want my life to be hard, but sometimes it has to be challenging to get to the next spot on the journey. Am I wrong about that?

—

After I freed myself from the first shallow point and let my tears out, I tried to focus on the beauty of the scenery. But then I got stuck again and I wanted to give up. I was real close to throwing my paddle in the creek, which would not have helped my situation at all. Later, I realized that I might have been trying too hard to get myself unstuck. That maybe the flow of the creek could have helped me if I could have just relaxed and trusted the flow around me. Instead I wore myself out with my struggling, and I ruined my enjoyment of the trip. By the time we reached the spot where we had parked the truck, two miles downstream from where we started, I was not sure I ever wanted to kayak again.

I was proud of myself for trying because I would have been disappointed if I hadn’t tried at all, but I didn’t think I’d had a good time. I didn’t want my experience to ruin it for the next group, so I tried to be vague about it when we got back.

“How was it?” one friend asked.

“I’m glad I tried it,” I said, but my frustration must have been written on my face because she immediately picked up on my lack of a good time.

After a cup of tea, a snack and a shower, my perspective changed. I thought about all these feelings that kayaking had stirred up. I think I got a year’s worth of therapy out of a trip down the creek. Later, I talked with others who were more experienced kayakers and they encouraged me to try again in deeper water, or even on a lake.

I don’t think my kayaking days are over.

And I’m still thinking about how I need to challenge myself more in healthy ways in order to grow.

Unrelated to kayaking, one thing that happened as a result of this trip is that I printed out three of my fiction works-in-progress and am gradually letting people read them and give feedback on the stories. One friend read a good chunk of one story during the weekend and her comments have encouraged me to keep going. Other friends are enthusiastic about my writing at a time when I am having trouble being enthusiastic about it myself.

In order for something good to happen with my writing, I’m going to have to take action. Me. Not anyone else. And that’s scary. Like so many things that require my active participation, I might ache afterward and be tired and grumpy, but will it have been worth it?

I’m still hoping to answer that question with a “yes.”