An Open Letter to The Queen of the Wilderness

I see you, split into two. 

It’s not the before and after, for both are you - rather, it’s comfort versus scary, safe versus unknown, still versus movement. 

Neither is better than the other, unless, of course, you’re me. 

One side – comfortable, safe, and still.

The other – scary, unknown, and moving.

This is how I describe it, how I must describe it to make sense of it. 

This understanding has taken me some time to arrive at - how one could present themselves so very different.

I took this hike once, solo, into the mountains of BC.  I’d done this exact hike a few weeks previously with several girlfriends. With them, I was able to explore places I would never had gone by myself.  Then, without anyone knowing, I packed the same items, drove out solo, and trekked along the path, finding the same patch of dirt, and setting up my tent.  My goal was to explore further on my own.  I craved pushing myself into the scary unknown, and to keep moving.  However, when I got there I boiled some water, poured a tea into my tin mug, and went into my tent for a nap.  I spent the rest of the day moving between the tent and my small burner, making tea after tea.  I read my book, curled in my sleeping bag, turning my face to the sun.  I found comfort when I thought I was up for a challenge.

I know what it’s like to want one side but be perfectly content on the other, to know that you should be moving but also enjoy a quiet break with a cup of tea (or beers on at patio).  There is beauty in both because you are in both, both are authentically you.  Both serve you - however, only one will continue to serve you. 

I didn’t venture any further on that solo trip and I left disappointed in myself.  I sat with that disappointment everyday, right or wrong. I was disappointed in myself. I was not, it seemed, The Queen of the Wilderness. But, as it turned out, it wasn’t long after that hike that I craved movement. I did venture back out, exploring foreign lands by myself, continual adaptation became my new normal. Growth, a currency in which I value myself, as well as my friendships.

I sat with you, listening to your desires to tackle the scary, the unknown, and grow.  I helped set up a space in which that could happen.  You showed me only this person - I stood, only on this side with you.  I helped you prep for the trek of your own. I was awestruck, inspired, and along for the ride.I listened to how excited you were to venture out, Queen of the Wilderness.  I helped you set up your camp, placed key items - a clock here, a plant there.  I was excited for you to explore this side, having never known you on the other. 

But, just like me, somewhere along the way you made a cup of tea, crawled inside your sleeping bag, and took a nap.  It’s cozy, isn’t it?  Face upturned to the sun, somewhere on a patio again.  You might not explore any further, and that’s okay.  It’s okay because I saw the other side of you.  I know you set out on that trek to keep moving forward but the stillness of the moment took over.  I know because I’ve been there. I’ve enjoyed the still, (but much prefer movement.)

I see you, split into two. 

It’s not the before and after - rather, it’s comfort versus scary, safe versus unknown, still versus movement. 

Neither is better than the other, unless, of course, your me.