Journeying toward courage.
***
The choice
between fear or courage arrives at sunset in Marathon, Texas. I stand barefoot
on the tile floor and look at the map unfolded across the hotel’s desk. I
follow her turquoise bejeweled finger as she traces the next part of our
journey – the hundreds of miles stretching to the border.
Seeing the miles,
the cities, the sprawling distance, I feel the sudden weight of my decision to
go to this conference on human trafficking in McAllen, Texas.
She senses my
hesitation. My childhood friend knows that my tendency is to second-guess and
fall into self-doubt.
“You decide,” she
tells me. She’s granting me the space to decide to go or stay.
I am desperate
for her fearlessness, her courageous openness and confidence in self to handle
whatever arises along the way. I crave freedom from this fear threatening to
sabotage my bold decision to travel to the border for a conference.
I think back to the email that ignited the spark to travel to Texas. I receive the
email about the conference on human trafficking on the border from my former
professor.
“This may be of
interest to you,” he writes. He’s my
undergraduate research mentor who supported my academic pursuits in researching
human trafficking in Kentucky. The whole process of writing the paper –
interviewing advocates & researchers, reading articles and gathering notes,
writing the paper and presenting the research at a national conference - is one
of the happiest experiences of my life.
I am aligned to purpose when I write to illuminate human rights issues. There’s a part of me that feels ecstatically alive when I research – I listen with my entire being to people’s stories, showing up as a witness, gathering information, seeking connections, and I carry these stories with me.
I am aligned to purpose when I write to illuminate human rights issues. There’s a part of me that feels ecstatically alive when I research – I listen with my entire being to people’s stories, showing up as a witness, gathering information, seeking connections, and I carry these stories with me.
The conference is
an opportunity to hear stories from the border from advocates, academics and
survivors. The border is a world I do not know, and I am pulled to seeing and
experiencing this world of blending cultures.
I believe this is
a sign from the Universe. The timing is ideal. My best friend from childhood
and I are already musing on an Austin and Marfa adventure. The conference
serendipitously fits into our plans. We’ll just swing south after rocking out
in Austin, romping through Marfa and roaming through Big Bend.
Now on the eve
before we embark deep south into the Lone Star state and staring at the map, I
realize this casual driving swing is a ten-plus-hour drive, and looming
through the journey will be anxiety about the conference itself. Disconnected
from my passionate initial response, I teeter toward the familiar hold of fear.
The fear calculates the risk of traveling all those miles in a single day. The
fear voices the concerns about feeling out-of-place at the conference. There is
the tempting alternative to stay here and spend the next few days adventuring
through West Texas.
The fear is
deeper than the practical concerns of traveling safely or the nervous butterflies about showing up solo to
a conference – this is the fear of change. Instinctively, I know this journey
will change me, and I fear how the experiences will shape me. My perspective
will be shifted by the speakers at the conference, by the world I will see
through the car windows (glimpses of Mexico), through the air I will breathe,
heavy with the stories from the border.
As the sun sets,
as the tiny Texas town turns inward, I make the decision to go, and I am
ecstatic and petrified. My love affair with courage begins here.
The traveled map to McAllen is etched into the inner
terrain of my heart, and I revisit those last few days in Texas often in gently
held memories. I slip back into the auditorium at the conference and feel the
spark of aliveness awakening me to the world beyond the border. I remember
deeply listening, a full focus that engaged my whole self. This unwavering
attentiveness is a sign that I am where I need to be, I am immersed in the life
flow, and this electric concentration happens when I am effortlessly doing what
I love.
The feeling is the memento. I cling to this feeling when
life currents get rough, when I feel distant from myself, and when an unknown
sadness settles and quietly rivers through the motions of my daily life.
The lingering feeling of Texas in my being propels me to
return. I am running away, but I am running back to source. I do not recognize
the person I am anymore – a whirling dervish of reactions, susceptible to
blinding anger and a dulling sadness. I book a solo ticket because I ache for
an adventure, a challenge, a remembering of the strength of my nature.
Then, the fear arrives a few weeks before my trip. The
fear wakes me in the middle of the night. I am wild with concerns. I consider
cancelling the trip.
I slow the breath. There’s a recalling of another memory,
of when fear emerged in charged panic. I land back in Marathon. I see the map spilled
out across the desk, and feel the same lurch of the heart, the quickening of
the breath. Fear. A fear I am beginning to understand: the fear signaling a
change. The fear of the unknown. Beneath the fear, is the terrifying thrill of
standing on the edge of a new adventure. The thrill of an adventure about to
begin, an end launching into a beginning, and the deepening of an innate
courage to go.
And go I do.
