A Consistent But Infrequent Light: Facing the Fear of Change.
A nighttime hike to an old lighthouse shows me that fear is part of the journey towards change. The question is, where do I go from here?
✨ A Consistent But Infrequent Light: Thoughts on Transitions, Fear and Trust.
This is a personal essay about the particular bend in the path of life that I’m facing right now. I share this with the hopes that my raw honesty will resonate with you.
“Want to hike to the lighthouse?”
My partner asked the question as I sucked on the dregs of my Freeze Pop (pink is the best flavor), my feet dangling over the edge of the hammock strung up across the porch of his apartment. Though it was October and night had fallen, the weather on the island of St. Croix always seemed to be perfect. The balmy evening breeze rustled the trees that lined the balcony. Dogs bayed in the distance.
“Now?” I asked, the limp plastic wrapper dangling from my lips like a translucent tongue. I was used to Hilly’s spontaneity after being with him for over a year, but truthfully, I was tired. We had trekked to see some tide pools earlier that day, and while there, the ocean had flung me around a bit, surprising me with its power as the waves approached and retreated. As a result, I had twin bruises blooming on my knees, and my quads screamed at the mere thought of another uphill climb.
But if you know Hilly, you know he’s quite convincing. “Ten minutes. That’s all it’ll take to get up there. And it’ll be worth it,” he promised, rummaging around the apartment for flashlights and headlamps (which all good biologists have, he told me). And so it was decided: we were going on a night hike.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up next to an abandoned coast guard facility. The vibe was downright creepy, like the opening scene of a low-budget slasher film. If someone had revved a chainsaw in the distance, I would’ve just nodded my head, resigned to my fate. What else could I have expected?
Only our headlights pierced the inky night, and the darkened windows of the long-vacant building were like soulless eyes, staring out at me as I got out of the car. It was eerily quiet. Dew dappled the tall grass as we walked forward, in search of the path.
“Are you sure this is it?” I questioned nervously, my flashlight trembling in my hand. Hilly laughed and told me we would be fine. “Just keep your light down and your eyes on your feet. One step at a time,” he coached as we embarked on what was supposed to be a short, uphill hike.
I don’t know why, but I was immediately afraid. First of all, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be in front or behind. If I was in front, I’d be the first to be eaten by some sort of Crucian monster hell-bent on the taste of human flesh. But if I followed Hilly, I’d be blindsided by the chainsaw-wielding serial killer who had followed us up the winding, unpaved road we had taken to get up here.
Both options sounded awful. I decided bringing up the rear was the best bet. At least I wouldn’t see it coming.
Each step was terrifying. My body and my brain screamed in tandem to turn around, that this was all wrong–that we would be lost, that we would be hurt, that we were making a huge mistake. The thoughts rolled around in my head, one after another, like a dog chasing its tail…there was no point to any of them other than to cause frustration.
And the hike seemed to be taking forever. “This is WAY MORE than ten minutes,” I grumbled, trying desperately to keep the tremble out of my voice. My breath came out in short, staccato-like bursts, less because of the exertion and more because of my anxiety, which was steadily climbing with each step I took. My Chaco-clad feet were getting wet and muddy. I was not in a good mood.
“We’re almost there,” Hilly insisted, and just before I threw in the towel and ran screaming back towards the car, the dense forest cleared and there we were.
The rusted-out husk of a historic lighthouse loomed before us, cutting an impressive silhouette against a star-dappled sky. We shone our flashlights up and down its length and stood in its belly, looking up at what remained of the spiral staircase. A corkscrew tunneling its way to the stars.
Suddenly, the whole world seemed to light up as the still-functional light blinked to life from a nearby, newer structure. Every hair on my arms was illuminated, and I felt like I had just been X-rayed: every negative thought I’d had on the way up the hill was laid bare and annihilated, leaving behind only a sense of curiosity and wonder.
And then, the darkness returned. Hilly gestured for me to follow him over towards the light, and slowly, we climbed the iron ladder that led up to a small platform where the lighthouse’s beacon was mounted. He went first, and I followed, my legs shaking and my grip tight as I slowly made my way up to join him.
What awaited me was, to put it plainly, magic.
As I blinked, willing my eyes to adjust bit by bit to the depths of the darkness, shapes began to emerge. Beneath us, the island dropped off into the ocean, which inhaled and exhaled peacefully like a slumbering child. To the north, the faint glow of St. Thomas was nothing but a hazy smudge on the skyline, as if someone had taken an eraser to it and blurred its edges.
And above us were the stars.
I hadn’t seen stars like that in a long time. I was both here, on the northern tip of St. Croix, but I was also on the roof of my childhood home in Missouri, counting the number of stars in the handle of the Big Dipper. It was like God himself had released a flurry of moths to eat tiny, pinpoint holes in the velvety fabric of the sky, letting me have only the barest glimpse of the brilliance that lay far, far beyond my current reality.
In the distance, storm clouds gathered. But we lingered there, huddled together on a 4X4 square, only able to see each other in the two, blaring flashes of light that arrived every half minute. In the darkness in between, I felt his arm, warm around my waist. The wind against my cheek. The evening-out of my breath.
Soon, it became clear that it would rain. As my feet left the final rung of the ladder, the skies opened, and we stumbled and tumbled down towards the car, the rush of being in the immense, beautiful hold of the lighthouse still enveloping us both. Mud streaked our legs, and our bodies were tired, but we were so, so alive.
***
At the end of the school year, I want to quit my job. Leave teaching. Leave St. Louis. Leave a community that’s been an essential part of who I have become. Shed identity after identity until all that is left is the bare bones of who I am.
I have done my time here. St. Louis is the place I got married. It’s where I got divorced. It’s where I experienced heartbreak and love, friendship and rejection, growth and stagnation. It has taught me so much about what I am capable of. But it has become comfortable, like my ex-husband’s sweatshirt that I still tug on from time to time. Not because it means anything to me anymore. Because it’s familiar.
I want to do something that 8-year-old, 15-year-old, 25-year-old Katie would have read about in books but never have done herself: I want to move far, far away with nothing but myself, two cats and hope.
But I am scared. Scared of what the unknown, dense forest holds around me–invisible hands that can grab me, gnarled roots that can trip me. Though my feet strike earth, one after the other, I fear each step.
I want to be brave enough to walk this path without fear. I want to trust that what’s at the top of this hill will be the kind of beautiful that I could have never, ever created with my own mind. I want to throw caution to the wind, sell all of my things, and run to the island and into the arms of someone who loves me.
I don’t want to feel the invisible hands of the what-ifs grab at my sleeves, trying to pull me back:
What if you are lonely?
What if you can’t find friends?
What if this love isn’t forever?
What if you change your mind?
I know that, if I choose to walk forward, it will be towards a promise of a consistent but infrequent light. Moments of brilliance, moments of darkness. Every single part of me that I hate might careen to the surface: my anxiety, my fear of rejection, my depression. But I may uncover beauty that I didn’t even know I had within me.
There are no guarantees in life. There is no guarantee in this.
Right now, I stand at the bottom of the hill, the flashlight of my intuition in my hand. I am reminded of the Hermit in the tarot, who holds her lantern aloft and only trusts the next step she takes, no more. I wonder if I can be that woman. One who does not fear the unknown because she is fully present in the now, in the chaotic uncertainty.
I put one foot in front of the other. I let the fear surround me. I feel it, I name it, and I see it.
I take another step. And another. And another.
Thoughts? Advice? A rousing “been there”? I’d love to hear it. Drop me a comment or just reply to this email.
✨ Everyday Woo, According to You
I’ve been writing this newsletter for five months! As a serial hobbyist, I’m pretty proud that I’ve kept it up. I thought I’d have run out of things to say by now but…PSYCH! I just have even more to say.
I’d love to hear some feedback from you, my dear readers. Don’t worry. This isn’t some covert effort to indoctrinate you into my Woo Cult (too late, you’re already here).
So would you take a few minutes to fill out the survey below? I’ll be gifting a week-ahead written tarot reading to one respondent, so give me that brutal, honest feedback! I truly appreciate you reading my words. Thanks for being a part of this weird lil community.
Mantra for the week: I embrace the entirety of my human experience, including the tough parts.
Tarot card of the week: The Hermit
There are times in life where you just have to sit with things and think. Solitude and reflection are common themes that are threaded throughout human existence (what’s up, Thoreau?), and the Hermit in the tarot embodies this moment of pensive, deep thought.
The Hermit is the 10th card in the major arcana but carries the number nine (the first card, the Fool, uses zero), which links to a final push towards the completion of a cycle, plus the wisdom and understanding that come along with it.
The imagery of this card shows a figure who has ascended to the top of a mountain that is shrouded in darkness. She knows that she was supposed to go here, but she’s not sure why…or where she will go next. The lantern in her hand represents her personal authority, or ability to control or understand where her journey will take her next. The light here is small, only illuminating the path ahead bit by bit.
The Hermit is learning to trust that tiny feeling inside that says, “more to come if you stay with this idea.” This work can be heavy, ponderous and difficult: a lot of questions arise with the Hermit, and most answers are not yet ready to be revealed.
When the Hermit shows up, this is a time to cocoon into yourself and feel, think and face the fear of uncertainty.
Prompts to think through the energy of the Hermit:
What am I beginning to understand about my purpose?
What lessons do I learn when I am alone with my thoughts?
Where in my life am I being asked to trust the process?
Who am I outside of my plans?
I know, I know. I said I was going to shift to an every-other-week model. But I MISSED y’all. So Everyday Woo is more like Every Week Woo, but I think the former has more of a ring to it. I’m trying out a bit of a shorter read in favor of more consistency. If you have thoughts to share, scroll on up and take the survey!
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