Courage: n.

Most of our dictionaries will tell us “courage” is the ability to control (or conquer) fear. I’m often cited for being ‘courageous’ while out touring, hitchhiking, or traveling as a solo female… and yet: none of those exploits instill much fear in me. A little anxiety certainly, a healthy dose of anticipation, and perhaps a touch too much excitement, but fear? No, the open road speaks to me of possibilities, of adventure, of freedom. Societies initial ‘impending doom’ scenario is soon superseded with the reality of universal care, and though we may walk out the door in fear, soon the sky opens, the road widens, and your oyster tastes sweet.

If we have an understanding of what to expect, of our tools and our surroundings, then we are much less likely to be gripped by fear and therefore less likely to be feeling Brave. An outsider, who has never ridden a loaded bicycle on a deserted road, undoubtedly encounters uncertainty, insecurity and fear at the mere mention of it. But to the rider, who has become accustomed to life at a 15mph pace, and who has a map of all the waterholes, it has become a grand expedition, a soul-building, freedom filled experience. Our amount of courage is in direct proportion to our depth of fear.

So, I think it’s safe to say that while ‘out there’ on the highways and byways of the world, I’m not being very courageous. That’s not to say I’m not a courageous person. On the contrary, I like to think of myself as being very brave and bold. In fact, I just moved into a small house in a Midwest town knee deep in snow, with my lover (short one fully functioning leg) and his mother – with the somewhat delusional intention of ‘settling down’. If that doesn’t take courage, I don’t know what does! After three years of constant movement, and a childhood built on sporadic upheaval – being in one place with four walls and a roof, and looking for a job – well, it’s a little scary. Add to that a body and mind that don’t know of weather below 10 degrees Celsius, and you’ve got yourself some serious fear.

We congratulate our explorers on their bravery and we question our comrades who stay at home, but you may not have to rage the flood, or roam the field or climb the mountains crest – for a little bit of courage, just add fear.

Settling Down

Snow collects on the branches of the bare trees, pulling them down towards earth, cars roll slowly over the icy roads and the neighborhood whispers quietly.

I’ve been outside, bare and exposed, for a long time. Sleeping in tents or buses, boats or warehouses, community couches or blow up mats or carpeted floor. Open to life around me, rarely having to design a direction – instead just following in the footsteps of what seems right. Which is to say – I’ve been free. But wandering is a limited freedom. What about food choices? Or the freedom to choose what I’m exposed to? Rambling means the ability to ramble on, but is it ever a chosen destination? I can ride my bike to the next town, but the only real question thereafter is – who do I want to be? Beyond that, I’ve already made the choice to be open, so then I must be with whoever is there, eat what they eat and sleep wherever they don’t.

Now, off the wandering highways, I have new lessons to learn. In a lot of ways, I’ve been closing doors. A sailing trip to Mexico? Nope, settling down. Building and beaches in Hawaii? Nope, I’m settling down. Bike touring New Zealand? Close that door too. And it’s surprisingly liberating. There’s no doubt it takes strength to allow options into your life, to be open to the possibilities – but I’ve found the hardest is in fact in the narrowing down again.  It requires a great power, the power of love for example, to select just one of those choices.

Now I wear pyjamas to bed, drink the same tea every morning and even have a drawer with six (6!) pairs of socks in it. I’ve been given slippers to keep my feet warm, beanies, scarves, gloves and boots – and just built my first snowman!

The weather here, in Madison Wisconsin, is grounding. Snow sticks to every surface and our hearts stick to our homes. It piles up outside our doorways – so we stay indoors. It offers time. Time to eat well, to write, to sew, to read, to learn, to develop. It’s a new found freedom. I can join the co-op and know my farmers. I can begin month long projects and acquire new skills. Especially, I can be myself, with the qualities I’ve found on the road, but simultaneously discover deeper aspects of ‘me’ that only a close community can help me find. We need both worlds I think, the road and the home, to maintain balance – but I sure have a lot of the latter to catch up on. And now, the space to do it.