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I used to be Amazonian. Before giving myself time to even think it through, I used to mount my white charger, standards blazing, and go tearing into the fray, my good intentions a shield at my side and my determination to help a gleaming sword in my hand. In other words, I liked to fix things for people. A lot.

It was reflexive. I was the oldest child, and with that, generally, comes an implicit expectation and responsibility for your younger siblings. I always like to joke that I had the misfortune to be saddled with a sister who didn’t know when to shut her mouth, and a brother who wouldn’t open his, and so I became the Valkyrie of the back of the bus, sweeping in to save them from themselves (whether they needed it or not).

This picture of me is somewhat misleading, though. I brought a book with me where ever I went. Each bus ride found me curled up in the seat, absorbed in the adventures of whomever I was currently journeying along with……until I heard trouble. I’d pop up, put the kibosh on it, and sit back down, knowing that once I ended it, it was ended.

The trouble was, I didn’t stop charging in once our bus riding days were over. And I carried that behavior into other relationships with friends and significant others. It’s one thing to bail your sib out of trouble when they’re getting hassled on the bus (or when they’re hassling someone else…). It is entirely another when you grow up and get older and the problems we face grow in proportion and magnitude. My do-gooder ways were not helping me, or anyone else, ironically enough. I took too much of it on, and invested too much time, energy, and emotion in other people’s stuff. And, every time I charged in, with an “I know just what you should do” and a dose of determination, it told them that I didn’t think they had the chops to handle their own stuff….which wasn’t true, and didn’t serve them, either.

And so, I decided to stop…with varying degrees of success. There are still some days where it takes a deliberate and conscious force of will to say, “You know what to do. You’ve got this handled, and I know that you’re going to be just fine,” instead of offering them a plan of action and a way to move through it. I can feel myself stop my tongue in its tracks before it can get away from me and offer help to someone who doesn’t need it. I can feel myself reminding me why I can’t let myself get so involved, why I can’t take on others’ worries, why this hasn’t worked out so well for anyone in the past.

Other days, it’s easier to remember why I decided to hang up that shield and sword for everyday use. Why I decided to keep them around for special occasions, for the times when it might be necessary to pull ‘em out and put ‘em on and go charging in. I’ve seen what happens when I just offer an ear and a word of encouragement, instead of a plan of attack and a strong sword arm – they are just fine. They figure it out and make choices and they are just fine without me charging in. Or they’re not, and they learn from it, so that next time, they will be fine.

I wouldn’t say that I’ve got this totally in the bag. I’ll probably fight this impulse on and off throughout my life. That’s okay, though – the desire to help, to be of service is a part of who I am, and it’s not an altogether bad thing when channeled into the appropriate avenues.

Sweeping in from the wings to save people from themselves only sets you up to be their savior from here on out. Once they see that you’re doing it for them, they don’t do it for themselves. It’s human nature to take the easiest road (so how’d I get to be such a freaking anomaly, hunh?). I’m learning that it’s far more satisfying to stand back and watch the people I love triumph on their own, to watch them hammer out their own sword and shield and fling themselves into the fray of their own lives with a glory that I couldn’t have dreamt of for them.

In the meanwhile, I’m learning to keep that Amazonian energy for myself. To channel that fire and passion into my own life, to change my own landscape, to build my own empires. To use that sword to cut away what no longer serves me, and that shield to shelter me from the crapstorms life flings my way. To be my own champion, first.

 

 

 

Trust me...you probably don't want to go out there. Look -- even the snow is trying to get in!

 

 

I generally think that meteorologists are akin to the Boy Who Cried Wolf, forever banging on and on about dire climactic conditions that never seem to materialize. Well, I should have believed them today! When I went to work (at about three this afternoon), the roads were clear and things just looked winter-ish.

At least I had the presence of mind to wear my fuzzy little boots! They let me out a half an hour early (at 10pm), and I ventured forth into winter’s raging fury. The weather peeps weren’t fibbing this time – my commute usually takes about twenty minutes ….it took me an hour to get home tonight.

To be honest, I doubted the sanity of choosing to even drive home pretty much the minute I turned out of the parking lot. There was zero visibility, the wind tearing sheets of snow over my windshield and across the roads. I was able to see about five feet in front of my car with any kind of reliability. And when I passed an unsheltered area, that dropped to zero – as though someone dropped a blanket over the windshield blocking out everything.

I inched home, slow and steady, trying my best to stay on the road, avoiding the massive drifts that popped like ninjas out of the swirling darkness. I finally made it back to the city proper, and the streetlights’ glow illuminated the changed world. I muscled my little trooper of a car into the parking garage, and buttoned and zipped and tugged and pulled all my winter gear into place.

And then I stepped out into the maelstrom. It stole my breath, the snow biting my cheeks – tiny razors flung from maddened skies. The drifts on the sidewalks were up past my knees, and I trudged home, marveling at the world gone white and shrouded and mysterious.

It was strange – I felt like the last girl alive. Below the rush of the wind, there was a hush. I’ve never seen the city all buttoned up this way. We live in Wisconsin – snow is par for the course, and we just tend to deal with it. But this? This was the kind of blizzard that I remember being awed by when I read about them in the Little House on the Prairie books. The drift in front of the apartment door was up to my thighs, and I had to kick my way in. It gave me enough time to read the memorandum that someone from the city had posted on the door telling tenants that this was considered a snow emergency, and that all cars must be parked in a lot or be towed, and that to venture out [essentially] was to take your life in your hands.

So, naturally, I skipped upstairs, changed my clothes, grabbed my camera, and went out exploring. I plunged through snow drifts up to my waist, my laughter torn away on the gusting wind. I made it all the way down to the river. The snow softened everything – no straight lines anymore, everything gone fuzzy and obscured. It was a brief reconnaissance – good sense kicked in when I couldn’t feel my hands anymore.

You just gotta have adventures when the opportunity for them drops, literally, onto your doorstep! Enjoy the fruits of my madcap mission!

On the street where I live...kind of out of the wind.

 

These pictures really cannot do justice to how cold and windy and biting it is out there.

 

 

I am standing in a snowdrift on the sidewalk in front of my building -- my feet aren't even on the ground, and the snow is up to my knees.

 

 

I climbed up into this drift -- it was over my head!

A small snow mountain that's destined to get bigger -- they'd already been out cleaning up the streets when I went out to take these pics at about 11pm.

 

Come have a look through my kaleidoscope eyes. Come walk with me, as I make my way down the Path of Mastery (complete with fits and starts and pitstops and potholes). Our very impermanence is what makes us burn so brightly, and struggle so valiantly, and feel so deeply – it’s what makes us seize the day, and the moment. Come in, settle in, share a moment with me.

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"Who are YOU?" said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." (Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 5)