Clutching the Boulder
What the Grand Canyon taught me about compassion
One summer, in the desert, I found myself clutching a rock. This was years ago, heat of Arizona, red rocks, views of the Grand Canyon, wide expanses of cavernous earth that seemed to go on endless in all directions.
I was there hiking with a friend whose bravery at the time ignited me to try new things — and it was there that I learned what limits feel like in their full embodied form. I arrived with the eager intention of completing that hike, but found myself, instead, arm over boulder, clutching the rock, scared to look down. I don’t like heights. Writing this alone makes me start to sweat. The problem, I perceived, was the trail, barely wide enough to hold two way foot traffic hundreds of feet up from the ground with no guardrails and no place to pause. The fear was too great, the panic was all I could hold. I hit my capacity and listened; I backtracked, said not today, and walked away.
I cried that day, first, and then breathed and I looked mostly at the ground. I walked slowly. I saw deer grazing, I picked up sticks and rocks, walked through the evergreens, and met myself where I was. I learned a lot that day about what I loved in that moment: insight, adventure, new experiences, the awe in the mountains, the chance to be outside, and the generous limits of my human capacity. Attempting to hike that trail, and then backtracking, gave me valuable information about orienting to my life; I learned where I was, what I needed, and gleaned some glimmers of where I wanted then to go. It was one of the strongest moments I’d felt in deep connection with the wisdom of my body — the kind where the messages signaled first as strong as a whisper, then a stop sign, then a boulder like a brick wall.
Years later, the summer that I started Odette Press, I drove across the country alone and revisited the same trail. In the time between the first hike and the second, I’d focused on training: I hiked small trails, many, wrote pages after pages, saw a therapist, and touched into the sensations of emotions of the landscape within. I felt what balanced felt like, I learned to navigate and reroute my thoughts, how to take small steps and not try to jump the gaps in life all at once. These small steps were the stop gaps that helped me feel safe, the ones that built up later to bigger visions.
One morning that summer I woke before the sun. I watched the moon hang bright and full over the canyon in New Mexico near the room where I slept. I watched the pink sky gradually open and ignite and take form — and by the time the sun came up, I was on the highway, heading north, back to the Grand Canyon. Determination rose steadily as a small flicker, glimmer, light, caught from a hidden ember, growing steadily fueled by memory into a courageous flame. I wanted to try again, but remain open, compassionate, and curious even more this time. Would fear be the copilot or the guide? Would it be as terrifying this time as the last time?
In the end, I made it to the Grand Canyon. I arrived to the same path, hiked part of the trail. I sat and took in the earth, marveled at the way the water somehow slowly, slowly carved out those immense canyons like our own human growth in human form, and met that same place in the boulder that I’d clung to years before. I walked slowly and deliberately seeing the ground, feeling steady and sturdy in the absence of the guardrails, breathing deeply to take the deep blue of the wide sky in until the firm clear call of fear trickled in, the heat of the day rising, and my body asked to leave. There is something to be said for trying, failing, returning, trying again. There is something strengthening in listening deeply, trying again, and then turning back. Capacity exists with us all for a reason, and the wise creatures of our bodies exist to signal those celebrations, those warning signs, those lingering storylines, those idea sparks, and often, those simple requests for our biologies’ needs.
As I write, I try not just to think, but also feel, and feel the tandem flow between mind, body, heart as conversation with the vividness of life. Here this body, these bones, this inner timbre convey their voices, tones, and callings. They yearn to be heard for pleasures, for comforts, for loud shouts and quiet whispers; the conversations between the whole landscape of our inner systems exist to keep us here, alive, and safe as best as we can. The beacons of our minds and bodies often communicate, telling us when to pause, when to rest, when to notice, when to leave, when to say yes, when to say no, and when something is a maybe. They speak loudly and quietly, in places in between, with interest and intent, and varying levels of clarity, and when we can quiet down, root into our own groundedness, we can fully, deeply listen.
This grounded embodiment is what I drop into, or try to, as I am writing, existing, and navigating the day. Writing and being with ourselves is a conversation between the pen or the computer, our lived experiences, and the quiet of the page is a place that can be ripe with care, compassion, and insights. Through writing and the small steps in life I learn when to clutch the ground and when to let go of the boulder. When I’m experiencing tension, it tells me to listen in deeply, curiously, compassionately, and closely — and usually to rest. Find something grounding. Find something stable and sturdy. Even when days feel uncertain, we can turn to the ground writing. We can pull back from the trail and meet ourselves where we are. I am trying each moment to listen.
Some prompts for locating ourselves in our inner worlds:
Where am I? In the world, in my life, in time
What’s here? What am I thinking, feeling, perceiving, believing? What’s now, and present in the world around me?
Is there anything my inner landscape — body, mind, heart — is asking for? Is there anything that needs nourishing?
This week let’s meet ourselves where we are.
Trust your inner strength, your best knowing.
this week:
I’ll be guiding a lunchtime Build Your Journaling Practice tomorrow at the Brooklyn Brainery, or try out Suminagashi: Marbling Basics this Friday for a creative, grounding artistic flow into the portal of the weekend.
workshops + experiences:
September 13 | build your journaling practice at brooklyn brainery
September 15 | suminagashi at brooklyn brainery
September 17 | odette press pop up at earth & me
September 23 | new seasonal session drops for paid subscribers
September 23 | bookbinding at brooklyn brainery
click here for the experience calendar + shop the experience recording library for guided journaling sessions
PS. Brooklyn readers: excited to share a new class on tasting and writing from your senses + a new bookbinding class will be arriving in the month ahead. Everyone else: there are two online writing experiences brewing on embodying feeling good and touching into delight through writing and life. More on that soon.