I fell in love with fly fishing, Montana and Brad Pitt at the same time. Or at least the idea of them. As a thirteen year-old girl, after watching “A River Runs Through It”, I promise you, I fantasized about all three. I haven’t managed to hang out with Brad yet, but I did make it to Montana once. And this year, I finally started fly fishing.
I asked a friend to teach me. But, as we drove a few hours into the mountains, a flood of self-doubt chastised me. What if I’m bad at it? What if I didn’t bring the right things and I’m too cold or I hate it? I’m used to being comfortably proficient at most things that I do. Continuing to try novel things as an adult can feel a little too vulnerable and even humiliating at times. I quietly acknowledged my discomfort then forced my thoughts back to the winding canyon and the pines reaching for light.
As I sat at our campsite getting ready to head out on the river, rain lightly fell, along with a realization that it was my wedding anniversary. I didn’t really feel anything in particular. But I did know it was worth noting, so, I did, writing the date on the corner of a page in my sketchbook I’d brought along.
I guess, if I’m honest, I felt a little bit happy. Not exactly happy, but something like it.
Over the years I’d learned to over-ask for permission about everything to avoid punishment. Being in an abusive relationship meant constantly erasing myself out of substantive fear. I am pleased that I’m beginning to unlearn this habit. On this anniversary, I celebrated that saying yes to something I‘d like to do wouldn’t mean having to pay for it later.
The past decade was very hard. The past several years were a nightmare. I left a little over a year ago and this past year held unique difficulties: widespread loss, stalking despair, cruel loneliness, significant questions, disturbing answers. Healing from trauma is not handed out; it is hard fought. A lot of that means sitting in sorrow for as long as it takes: naming it, feeling it and expressing it thoroughly and regularly. To cut the process short with distractions is highly tempting and sometimes necessary. But too much of that not only evades pain, but side-steps healing as well.
There comes a time, though, when sitting in the familiar pit becomes the temptation — an unproductive, delusional practice of waiting around for your past, present and future to miraculously change. The idea of “moving on” seems cheapening to all of the significant things that have happened and on specific hopes. But, as I’m learning — to read a river, to mimic an insect and make a fish rise, to stand knee deep in a river engulfed in nature’s beauty, it doesn’t feel like escapism. It feels like engaging in life again.
I’ve been appropriately engrossed in the journey of mourning; now it is time to be fully present to something else. Giving myself permission to do that was the hardest part. Not throwing my mourning clothes away, but not forever wearing them as a shroud either. Instead, choosing to wrap up the hard things and tuck them in a drawer to contemplate another day. Occupying my mind and body with something else that brings me to enjoy the gift of today.
