“The call to a second journey usually commences when unexpected change is thrust upon you, causing a crisis of feelings so great that you are stopped in your tracks.” — Joan Anderson, The Second Journey
I first read those words about nine months ago, sitting alone in an empty kitchen, having wondered for weeks just what I was meant to do next, now that the house was built, the long-awaited book finally written and published, the sons nearly grown.
This weekend, I went to meet the woman who wrote them, the woman who once ran away from home to spend a year in a cottage by the sea, in order to find her way back to her own true self, a self long since lost to the demands of marriage, motherhood, career, and the needs of others.
Packing the car on Friday afternoon, I still wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for on my own “Second Journey” retreat, or why I was going off to spend a weekend with a group of strangers on Cape Cod, when I had more than enough to do right here — weeds to pull and a garden to plant, a manuscript to read for a friend, a husband who’d have preferred to have me around, a to-do list filling the whole right page of my calendar.
And yet. The ache I’ve felt deep in my breast this year has not been assuaged by any of the small, worthy tasks that fill my days. I do all I can, in all directions, and then lie awake at night, worrying about things beyond my control. I meditate in the morning, practice living in the moment, and yet carry a deep sadness for moments already gone. I love the people in my life, and yet feel battered again and again by unsettling, difficult conversations. I reach out to my teenaged son, and feel not connection but more distance, our relationship raw and tender to the touch, like second-degree burns on my heart. I answer my e-mails, read a little, write a little, spend time with my family, bring lunch to a friend. The days are busy and full and good. Still, the question nibbles at my edges: What now?
Saturday afternoon, standing barefoot on the beach, I glimpsed the beginnings of an answer. Part of the ache, I know, comes from my own sense of still not being quite up to the job of being me. Not a good enough mother, wife, or friend, no matter how much I care. Not a good enough writer, or yoga student, or meditator, no matter how hard I try. Not a good enough public speaker, or checkbook balancer, or wage earner, no matter how much effort I put in.
I know that where I see only lack and failure, others see competence. But I keep my own secret list of insecurities and shortcomings, certain that what seems to come so easily and naturally to others must be hard-won by me. I want to be better at living my life than I am these days, to feel sufficient just as I am, more certain of what I’m meant to do now, and how I’m meant to be.
We had arrived on the outer banks by boat, rolling our pant legs up high and hopping into the clear, cold water one by one to wade ashore. With a knowing twinkle in her eye, Joan had given us each our marching orders back at the dock, along with our bag lunches: solitude and silence. Out here, both were easy to find. A few steps along the beach, and I was already alone, heading out toward the breaks, the surf, the wide open stretches of dune and shore grass and wild water. The sun was warm, the wind so fierce it whipped stinging needles of sand onto every morsel of exposed flesh.
For four hours or so, I wandered in silence, shedding layers of extra clothing along with layers of identity, feeling, thoughts, and inner chatter. There was nothing to do but walk and look and wonder, no where to go except where my feet carried me. No sooner had I taken a step, than the next wave rolled in, erasing my foot prints from the sand. The scouring, relentless wind washed my mind empty of thought and judgment and doubt. Step by step, moment by moment, I relaxed. First into a kind of inner stillness. Then, into peace. And from there, it was not much of a leap to joy.
How satisfying it is, to disappear, and then to be found by the world. How exhilarating, to be relieved of all expectation and commitment, and then to rediscover your own bare-naked self. What a relief, to lighten my psychic load, to let go of all the worries and judgments and doubts I lug around day after day. What a blessing, to see what it is that remains, after everything heavy and useless and outgrown has been dropped and left along the way. What joy, to be slowly but surely filled right up to the brim again with love.
Far from the mainland of my daily life, it dawned on me: love allows me to get out of myself, and to be grateful for all things. Love enables me to embrace my life exactly as it is, rather than regretting that it’s not precisely as I want it to be. Love heals that which is split within; it restores my strength and faith, reminds me that who I am really is all right with me.
Joan Anderson calls the beach walk a scavenger hunt for the soul. And so it is. Sometime late in the afternoon, as I trudged against the wind, back toward the lighthouse and civilization, I picked up a wide, white, bowl of a clam shell, rubbed smooth by wind and water. A vessel it was, but not one that could ever hold very much. Water would flow in and out with ease, passing through this gentle curve of a cup, as shallow as my own open hand. This, I realized, is what I aspire to — to unfurl my fist, to allow love to pour in and to spill right out again with ease, without all the grasping and the holding that so often entangles me. How I yearn to be as pure and clean and simple as that bleached white shell: receiving and releasing, filling and emptying and filling again, eternally open to the flow of life.
I adore Joan Anderson’s books of self-discovery and renewal, love her willingness to laugh at herself even through tears of confusion and despair, her generosity of spirit, her eagerness to share what she’s learned with the rest of us restless, middle-aged seekers. And I am so grateful now that when I first wrote to her, months ago, she answered my letter. And that when she said, “Come to the beach,” I said I would. There is not a woman among us who couldn’t use a weekend away, a walk on the shore, a good night’s sleep alone in a bed far from home. I know I am lucky to have had all those things this weekend, along with the most precious gift of all — time to just be, without one bit of pressure to do.
In the end, I did find what I was looking for, out there on the outer banks: Hope. Hope that things will work out for the best. Hope that when the going gets tough, as it always does, I will remember who am and draw strength from the truth that I already know: love enlarges and sustains us. Love saves us from ourselves. Love is pure, positive energy. Love really is all we need.
Joan gave us much this weekend, from a candle-lit lobster dinner in her home, to belly laughs and yoga on the beach. But I think the words that I treasure most now that I’m home again were not hers, but ones she shared by Robert Frost. Asked if he had hope for the future, Frost replied:
“Yes. And even for the past, that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was. Something that I can accept–mistakes made by the self I had to be, or was not able to be.”
I drove away from the Cape last night refreshed and inspired, and bearing this same small hope in the palm of my own hand. It is time to forgive myself for not being more. Time to love myself, imperfections and all, just as I am.
Wow. I’ve read. I’ve nodded in agreement and had my own little moment of self-discovery!
Thank you so so much for sharing. May all your days be filled with love and hope . . .
Regards, Sue
I so look forward to your posts, Katrina. I wait until I have a moment to read them quietly, and I savor your words. You’ve reached out to me through the pages of your books, and you have touched my heart. I’m a mom of two little ones (ages 2 and 4), and I find so much joy and peace in your writing.
Thank you for sharing your perspectives and experiences and heart with us.
My husband’s dear grandmother passed away last week, and the funeral was today, so I’m typing away from the quiet of a hotel room in Wichita, KS while my family is sleeping around me. Grandma was an amazing, darling lady. Her funeral was a beautiful ceremony. Grandma was also so self-depreciating and kind of hard on herself. I wish she could have held in hear heart your comment "love allows me to get out of myself, and to be grateful for all things. Love enables me to embrace my life exactly as it is, rather than regretting that it’s not precisely as I want it to be. Love heals that which is split within; it restores my strength and faith, reminds me that who I am really is all right with me. "
Who I am is really alright with me. Isn’t that just the core of it? How can we really be content and at peace unless we are alright with ourselves. A good reminder for myself. And a good reminder as I tend to the hearts of my little ones and my friends and my community.
Thanks, Katrina.
Katrina, I swear, you channel my thoughts. I carry that same deep sadness, and long for both that peace and that comfort and being-enough-ness that you describe aching for. Your weekend sounds marvelous. I’ve read Joan’s books and likewise really resonate with her message. She – and this post – feel like a modern day echo of Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
Thank you for these beautiful words.
I’ve also read Joan’s books and felt a connection and a yearning, even though I’m not in the same life phase as her (or you). I’m a mom of little ones (9, 6 and 3) and find myself a little empty and lost at times. Your words mixed with hers together is the perfect melding of the minds. You are definitely a kindered spirit as is she.
I identify with this post in so many ways, especially that sense of "still not being quite up to the job of being me." I seem to feel that almost daily. That ever-present question of "what now?" looms heavy, and I most certainly feel that "I know that where I see only lack and failure, others see competence." My "second journey" is just beginning. It’s my voyage into stay-at-home motherhood, and even though the baby’s not even here yet, I often feel like I’m not up to the task. I fill my days with all the things a person getting ready to have a baby does, but those "small but worthy tasks" don’t help with that feeling of "what now?" At the moment it feels as if I’m living between two worlds, two identities, and my greatest hope is that I can simply embrace this journey and "to feel sufficient just as I am, more certain of what I’m meant to do now, and how I’m meant to be."
I always love finding a new post on your blog. It always gets my brain twirling. And I wont allow myself to read them quickly, because I know there is a lot to hear within your words, and I dont want to miss one teeny point.
I am glad you found some peace. I am sad that you struggle with how wonderful you truly are. But the best part is, you acknowledge it and you move forward to change it. 🙂
Your post made me ponder how I feel the same, or differently. And I came to the conclusion that this is one of those areas where my leg is my blessing. Growing up with a limb that didn’t work right, I learned early on, what was ‘good enough.’ I learned to let go of the embarrassment that certain situations brought, and put them where they belong, in the past, out of my mind.
I feel blessed that this skill spilled over into parenthood, grown up life. I definitely have regrets, anyone who has raised kids does, but I dont allow myself to dwell in them and be defined by them. (most of the time!)
All I know of you leads me to a strong conclusion that you are very much the right person to be playing this role of you on the planet. You have raised two amazing boys who will bring you joy for decades to come. Now you get to have time to be more of ‘you’ than ever before. And I cant wait to see what that looks like.
Hugs,
judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
A lovely post, Katrina. I like Frost’s words about accepting the self we were not always able to be. For me, this is at the heart of most regret I feel for the past . That, sometimes, the person I was , was not the person I wished I had been, and that it made a difference. In precious relationships, when the person I was, acted not out of love, and not by "doing the best I could at the time"-( a rationalisation for behaviour I never find reassuring because how could it always be true )- but by giving way to pride, or inertia, or selfishness ,or fear, or any number of other miserable characteristics I’ve sometimes allowed to have front row seats in my relationships with people I love. I canforgive myself more readily for mistakes made with a genuine loving intent, no matter how misguided. It’s those times when I know I could have done better, and it mattered, that hover around me like Harry Potter’s Dementors, never really allowing me to feel that I am a good enough mother, daughter, wife, friend..
You know, the best part of writing this blog is reading the thoughtful, caring comments from all of you. I never really know who’s out there, or whether what I have to say will resonate in someone else’s life. And yet, week after week, we carry on here, reading, writing, and touching one another’s lives in unexpected ways. It means a great deal to me, to hear from each of you. To know that we have a conversation going on and that it’s open-ended and all-inclusive. To be reminded that I was asking "What now?" twenty years ago myself, as I prepared to give birth and stay home with my baby. (I’d forgotten that!) To realize that second journeys can begin at any stage of life, and that adversity itself can bring us to self-acceptance. And to realize, of course, that we are all seeking peace and hoping that we can simply ease up a bit, and be gentle with ourselves. Thank you, all of you, for checking in, sharing your thoughts, your wisdom, and glimpses of your lives.
Katrina, I discovered your site one day and listened as you read "The Gift of an Ordinary Day." It totally resonated with me, as the mother of five adult sons. I am exposed almost daily to young mothers, struggling with demands of rearing their little ones, and listening to them as they compare themselves to the other young moms who share their lives via blogs. It is refreshing to find women who are in my season of life, and realize that we too have needs for identity. I’m glad we have found one another. I enjoy your writing.
Keep it up!
Careen
Katrina: I want you to know just how grateful I am for this blog. I’m always excited to read your latest ‘food for my soul’ offering whenever I notice you have posted a new entry. They truly make my day, and lately my days have been filled with increasing uncertainty and self doubt about my abilities as a work from home mom, a homemaker, a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a wife. I / we find ourselves pulled daily in so many different directions – all at the same time in most cases … that it’s almost impossible for us to quiet our minds long enough – to as you’ve said – just "be", without feeling the pressure to do.
I too want to be better at living my life than I am, to feel more sufficient and more certain of what I’m meant to do now, and how I’m meant to be. Thanks for reminding me to "embrace my life exactly as it is – not precisely as I want it to be" rather than regretting all it isn’t. Just yesterday I admitted to my husband that he makes me feel like no matter how much I do, it’s somehow never quite enough. Maybe it’s because inner dialogue tends to echo what our family members seem to remind us of every day. It’s never the things we’ve done that are noted, but rather what we’ve neglected to do – and still have yet to do. Thank you also for reminding me to forgive myself for not being more.
I’ve decided to embrace every imperfection I have mastered over the years, and I’m owning every single one of them with pride!
Thank you once again Katrina.
Your honesty, poetry and grace, your acknowledged insecurity and intrepid love all make me feel kindred with you (and with the comments of those I know and those I do not).
I find myself increasingly unable to shake the feeling that we are in some sort of lucid dream together, and that our yearnings and longings are, as Frost hopes about our pasts, perfect. It seems that when we still our minds, nature weaves us back to ourselves, the beach like a strip of hypnagogic consciousness between the vast sea of our souls and the workaday land of our lives… and from our authentic and perfectly imperfect ego-selves we find ourselves being woven into some perfectly wondrous quilt.
Katrina: It is quite amazing and comforting to know that others have the same feelings as I do. Reading your blog and the responses has helped me get through a transition phase that is hitting me hard.
Thank you.
I am at a different stage in the motherhood part of my journey, but, like you, Katrina, I find myself wondering, "What now?" as though I expected the meaning of life to be written on my son’s hospital discharge papers. I continue to search for meaning in the everyday and spend plenty of time wondering if it is in fact the wondering that gives meaning to life. What heartens me, though, even while realizing that there are no easy answers, is the knowledge that others are asking the same questions.
Joan Anderson also puts me in mind of Anne Morrow Lindbergh. I look forward to reading more from her – and from you.
Thanks, Katrina.
It is so refreshing to see that other comments come from women who are in varying life stages. I bought Joan’s book in 2006 while on a trip to the Cape. I left my sweet husband at home in CA with our 3 year old and 10 month old. Even then, I was wrestling with the "what now" questions and wanting so badly to savor the journey. But if I am honest with myself, I want to know the destination while still being able to savor the journey, because the journey is going far too quick.
I was only introduced to your work a few weeks ago when someone sent me the You Tube video of your book reading. I wept with understanding even though I am still in the early stages of motherhood. I am savoring every ordinary day even when it feels like I am swimming upstream. As the calendar calls out for me to fill it with more and more, I walk away knowing that these moments are precious moments and do not come again. I’m still not quite up to the job of being me either. I do know who I am, but everyday I forget and need to be reminded because who I am goes against so much of the culture.
I saw in a post a few days back that you have a bookshelf of ‘Lifeline" authors. I would love to know some of the books that have touched your soul.
Thank you again for giving a voice to what many of us feel.
So wise! So great that you realize the wonders of the special time at home with your family. Enjoy this time together and treasure the memories.
… and thanks for slowing me down too!
I read Anderson’s books last summer and recently found my notes from my reading. She speaks to every part of my being. It is my dream to take one of her workshops.