The Walk, Part II: Self-Care

I have a rather ugly habit. 

Strangely enough, this habit has grown out of what most people would consider to be a positive trait.  Quite often, I will prioritize the needs of others above myself.  That sounds like a good thing, right?  And it might be, and at times it is.  There are times when this is a natural reflection of an unselfish spirit.  It might even be a perfectly reasonable aspect of my nature as an encourager, and as such, it might be an essential expression of who and what I am.

At other times, though, it is one of the most mind-numbingly selfish things that I do.

You see, I am very good at playing the role of the martyr.  “Look what I gave up to do this for you.  I had such plans, and I did this for you instead.  Look what I did.  I hope you appreciate this.  I gave up (fill in the blank) so I could meet this need for you.”

Oh, brother.  

Let’s be honest:  When we layer martyrdom on top of what should have been a selfless gift, it’s not selfless at all.  This breed of false martyrdom turns the focus away from meeting a genuine need, and puts it all on ourselves.  It certainly ruins the gift.  Sadly, I’m very good at playing this role.  I can play the character of the Martyr with an endless variety of nuances, carefully tailored to match the occasion.  I’m sure I must have been an accomplished thespian in a previous life.  (That was in sarcasm font, if you’re wondering.)

Not only is this habit selfish, but it is self-destructive.

I’m not telling you this because I like to proclaim my ugliness.  It’s just important for you to understand this because I want you to understand how impactful it was when I decided not to be that person.  

I work Tuesday through Saturday.  Sundays are usually the only day I have off with my family.  As a general rule, I regard Mondays as mine.  Nearly eight weeks ago, (July 16^th, for those of you who love exact dates), I had planned to go on a walk.  The day didn’t start out well.  There was something that needed to be done for Melanie, and “important” chores that I needed to take care of, and then Gideon needed something…  In no time, I managed to convince myself that I had to sacrifice my plans for the day to meet all these other needs, and I went into full Martyr Mode.

I went from giving to grotesque in the blink of an eye, and I did it without ever planning to do so.

You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned any specifics about all the “important” things that I “had” to do that day.  The truth is, I don’t remember what they were.  I don’t remember because they weren’t really important, and I didn’t actually have to do any of them.

Melanie was lucky.  She had to go to work, so she escaped my dramatics rather quickly.  If she rolled her eyes on the way out the door, it was justified.  Gideon was not so fortunate.  Sometime around mid-morning, he asked for my help with some small thing, and I responded with an excessively dramatic variation of, “Fine.  I guess I just won’t get to do anything I want to do today.”

I can be a real ass****, given the opportunity.

When I saw the hurt in his eyes, it sickened me.  You see, Gideon is not just my 16-year-old son, he is also one of the best friends I’ve ever had.  In many ways, he is already the man I aspire to be.  Furthermore, he was only asking me to do something that I had already promised to do for him.  Although I don’t recall the specific task, I do remember that it took less than five minutes.  To hurt him for the sake of playing the martyr disgusted me.

I finished the task, returned to my desk, and realized I did NOT want to be the person I was being that day.  I shut off the computer and sheepishly went in to tell Gideon that I was going to go walking, after all.  “I think it will be good for you,” he said.  He is SO much wiser than I am, sometimes.

For the record, making this choice was out of character for me.

For several months, I’d been contemplating the walk I had planned for that day.  Less than a mile northeast of the gallery where I work, there’s a road called Cerro Gordo.  It winds its way up into the hills east of Santa Fe along the north side of the Santa Fe River.  It’s a road that feels timeless, with centuries-old homes that are built of adobe and river stone; a road where it’s easy to lose your sense of where and when you are.  It makes its way around the base of its namesake hill*, then eventually bends south to cross the river and connect with Upper Canyon Road.  I’d driven along these roads a few times, and I’d always thought it would be nice to walk there.  *(Did you know that Cerro Gordo literally means, “thick hill?”  I didn’t.  I just looked that up a few days ago.)

I drove to a park near the west end of Cerro Gordo, and my contrary spirit tried to discourage me one last time.  Although the skies to the west of me were a deep shade of New Mexico blue, there were clouds gathering over the Sangre de Cristos.  Mid-July is monsoon season here in New Mexico, and sometimes the downpours can be torrential.  What if I get rained on? said the whiny voice in my head.  It could ruin the walk!  Maybe I shouldn’t go.

God, but I hate that voice.

Then another inner voice spoke up, a quiet, reasonable voice.  So what if it does?  What’s the worst that can happen?  Do you think you’ll melt?  You don’t even have your camera to worry about. (More on the camera in a minute.)  I stood there by my truck for a moment, and I realized that I needed to choose which voice to listen to.  The quiet, reasonable voice won, so I locked the truck and set out.

I didn’t recognize it at the time, but those steps may well have been life-changing.

A side-note here:  I made a deliberate choice not to take my camera.  The day before, I had been reading the introduction to A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino de Santiago by John Brierley, considered by many to be the guide to walking the Camino.  Brierley was writing about things not to take on the Camino, and he strongly advised leaving your camera behind.  In his mind, stopping to take pictures interferes with the spiritual aspects of pilgrimage.  I decided to give this thought process a go, to see how it worked for me.  I did have my iPod, my Camelback full of cool water, and a walking stick that my Dad had made for me when I was ten years old or so.  The walking stick is remarkably light and strong, as Dad made it from a scrap of fiberglass spar from a hang glider wing.  It was the 1970’s equivalent of carbon fiber, and it’s accompanied me for many walks and hikes over the years.

A few blocks from the park, I turned east onto Cerro Gordo under a darkening sky, and, in doing so, I stepped out of Santa Fe into something mysterious.  

My words may fail me here.  I had the soundtrack to The Way playing on my iPod, and perhaps that played a role in where my thoughts went.  Cerro Gordo Road climbs steadily as it moves east into the canyon.  As I started, Picacho Peak loomed ahead of me.  The quality of the light shifted from New Mexico warm to cool and gray as the clouds moved in, and the air was moist and remarkably cool for July.  As I walked, it felt less and less like I was walking in Santa Fe, and more like I was… elsewhere.

I quickly came to the tiny Lorenzo Lopez chapel, perched on its rocky outcrop above the road.  I reached for my camera, only to remember that I’d chosen not to bring it.  The chapel was too beautiful not to photograph, though, so I pulled out my phone a took some snapshots.  A short way up the road, I came to a series of homemade banners hanging from a stone wall, proclaiming messages of peace.  This reminded me of some of Bill Bennett’s photographs taken along the Camino, and so I used the camera in the phone again.  A short way past that, there was a picturesque group of mailboxes that needed to be photographed, and then a wall with a stylized snake on it, and then a rustic gate, and then a view of Picacho across the valley…  and I realized that leaving my “real” camera behind was silly.  

All the while, with every step, I felt as though the world was vibrating at a different frequency.  At the risk of sounding very new-age, I was walking in two places at once, in a place where the boundaries between realities was tissue-thin.  I watched the aspect of Picacho change as I walked east, changing from a mountain looming in the distance ahead to companion beside me.  I’d close my eyes and feel the rhythm of my footfalls keep time with Tyler Bates’ peaceful soundtrack, and feel the occasional raindrop on my skin.  I was walking east into the hills above Santa Fe, yes, but I was also walking west, into the Pyrenees.   I know this may sound strange, but there was a part of me that was taking my first steps into Spain that afternoon.

I didn’t worry about how long I was taking, or how far I’d gone, or how far I still had to go.  I needed this walk, and I’d known that.  What was different, on this day, was that I actually listened to the voice that knew what my spirit needed.  Like so many of my “profound” discoveries, this probably seems rather simple, even obvious.  Still, I was a big deal to me.

I had every intention of turning back to my truck when I reached the top of the road, where Cerro Gordo turns to meet Upper Canyon.  But… there is a nature preserve at the east end of the road, and it called to me, even as I smelled the unmistakable aroma of rain in the air.  I listened to the call, and I kept walking.  As I descended into the wetlands along the Santa Fe River, the rain started to fall, but it was gentle, and so I kept walking.  I watched the rain ripples across the water, and sat on a bench and listened to the raindrops whisper through the trees, taking photographs with my phone all the time.  I allowed myself to forget that I had been playing the role of martyr, that I’d been an ass, that there were things that needed doing… and I just was.  I was surrounded by beauty, and I bathed in that beauty shamelessly.  I let if fill me.

I wandered up to the site of the Randal Davey house, where the Audubon Society has its home.  I had a fascinating conversation with a young naturalist that worked there, and he showed me a wild weasel that he’d caught in a live trap in his office that morning.  (He was going to take it up into the hills and release him that evening, lest you wonder.)  I finally let me feet carry me back down Upper Canyon, and marveled at the way it reminded me of photos I’ve seen of parts of the Camino as it wanders through rural Spanish villages.  All along the way, I took pictures with my phone.  I didn’t worry that I didn’t have my “real” camera.  I simply accepted that fact, and used the resources I had.

Somewhere on that road, on that walk, I laid something down and lost it.  I’m not sure just where.  That’s okay, though, because it was something that needed to be lost.  There’s a part of me that started out on that walk, but he got lost along the way and didn’t return to my truck.  I’m still not certain, but I believe that “lost” part of me played an important role in enforcing the concepts of my limits, of all the things I “can’t” do.  I’ll be honest – I don’t miss what I lost that day.

Okay, it’s time to acknowledge the cynics who may be reading this.  You know who you are.  I suspect I know the essence of what you may be thinking:  So he took a walk?  Really?!?  Who cares?  What does this have to do with my creativity?  I don’t want to know about a walk – I want to know why I can’t create!* *(Write/paint/dance/play my piano, etc.)  That’s the only reason I’m wading through all this written-word muck!

You cynics are absolutely right.  You see, my walk was, in itself, unimportant to everyone but me.  What that walk represented, however, is vital to all of us.  On that day, I chose to listen to my inner voice when it said, Feed your spirit.  I was tired, worn-down and used up.  (Sound familiar?)  For a brief and crucial moment, I quit lying to myself about the importance of all the things I “had” to do.  I acknowledged that I needed to take care of me, and then I proceeded to do just that.  

It would be very easy to think that I am advocating selfishness here.  On the contrary.  Self-care is a vital component to being unselfish.  Here’s the simple truth:  If we continually deny ourselves, constantly putting the needs of others before our own needs, then eventually we burn out.  It may not be politically correct to acknowledge this, and it may well go against the way you were raised, but it is true, nonetheless.  You cannot draw water from an empty well, and you cannot continue to take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself.  

I’m not really saying anything new here, but if my own life is typical, you’d think I was.  We just aren’t taught to think this way.  It certainly goes against the grain of what many “People of Faith” seem to believe, which as actually rather strange when you think about it.  As a follower of Christ, I try to use his behavior as an example.  Here’s the thing:  According to the Gospels, Jesus would claim time for himself!  He would get up early and go out alone into the wilderness to pray, to reconnect with his Father.  Perhaps I’m wrong, but I doubt that this “prayer time” looked much like the paintings of Jesus kneeling on a mountaintop, bathed in heavenly light.  Perhaps, just maybe, it looked like… walking?  Sitting on a quiet riverbank, and savoring the silence?  Hard to say for certain, but definitely worth thinking about. If Jesus Christ found it necessary to take care of himself, why is it that organized religion often portrays our own self-care as selfishness?  To me, it’s just silly.  

I’ve mentioned before that I think my decision that day was life-changing.  That’s a pretty audacious claim, but I have a reason for thinking this is true.  Greg McNall, my pastor and friend during our time in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, had a simple test for whether or not something was spiritually valid.  Paraphrasing one of his favorite pastors, he’d say, “The fruit don’t lie.”  In the simplest terms, I believe that my decision to care for myself that day was life-changing, because I have changed since then.  These changes are the fruit. (I don’t change easily, as my family will attest.)  While I’ve noticed numerous small changes in my behaviors, the most obvious change relates directly to the stated purpose of this blog.  I started creating again!  I claimed my right to self-care and went walking on July 16^th.  On July 17^th, I wrote and published my first blog entry in over five years.  If that was a one-time occurrence, I wouldn’t think much of it:  However, I have continued to write and publish prolifically since then.  This is my eighth blog entry since I started writing again, and I have a list of nearly a dozen topics I want to write on in the coming weeks.  Coincidence?  To my way of thinking, the law of cause and effect is a far more reasonable explanation.

Somehow, in allowing myself to listen to my inner voice, in giving myself permission to care for me, I destroyed the barriers between myself and my creativity.  Although I am a bit odd, I don’t think I am unique.  I’d encourage you to experiment with this for yourself.  Test the hypothesis, and see what happens.  I’d love to hear how it works for you.