Radical Trust
An entrepreneur’s transformation story
Every morning — rain or shine, bitter cold or humid heat — I walk with Willow. As I drag myself out my nice warm bed, I tell myself it’s for her — so she can get outside to “do her business” and get her doggie ya-yas on while chasing squirrels (and rabbits and groundhogs and leaves and shadows…). But while my furry companion certainly needs those things, I have to admit: I need our 7am walks more. Even on days like today when it’s 5 degrees and the trail is covered in many inches of new snow and I forget my snowshoes.
It’s not just for the fresh air and exercise, although they do me a world of good of course. I need these walks to air out my mind. Literally, to get myself out of my own head.
It doesn’t always work. Sometimes my feet follow the well-worn path on autopilot while my focus is fully trained inward, enmeshed in mental gymnastics that leave me blind to the outside world. But over time I’ve become aware of this bad habit and I’m working to break it. That’s one of the many good things about my morning routine with Willow — every day it gives me another chance to practice being present. And I’m making progress.
Nature is helping. She sends me distractions, like a woodpecker hammering a nearby tree, deer tracks in fresh-fallen snow, a hawk gliding the thermals over the far end of the field. These are enough to snap me out of my mental gyrations and remove the blinders from my eyes so I can see what’s all around me. And just BE for a few minutes.
Today it was the sunrise. There’s a certain spot on my path where I try to remember to look up and notice the sun’s position each morning as it rises over the mountains. From this fixed vantage point, I gauge the progression of the sun’s location from north to south, solstice to equinox to solstice and back again. In the early days of winter it’s not easy since we walk so early, still almost dark on those shortest of days. And when it’s cloudy, as it often is in December and January in Vermont, I may not see any hint of sunrise for days. Then all of a sudden on a clear day, I catch a glimpse of light and notice the sun has jumped a few clicks to the north.
This morning was one of those days. The first clear morning in many days and a synchronicity of perfect timing brought me to my sunspot just as the first rays cleared the tops of the trees. As I turned to face the sunrise, I watched it emerge, shining full and round, directly over the road that leads back up to my house, like a beacon calling me forth, lighting my path forward.
Magnetic. Magical. Meaningful.
I felt a deep calm that I haven’t felt for days… (weeks? months?) For far too long I’ve walked in a little bubble of isolation as I completely rethink my career, my calling, my value, my place in the world. The other day I coined a phrase that describes it precisely: I am professionally lonely.
As an entrepreneur — arguably, the loneliest profession out there — I accepted long ago that loneliness comes with the territory. I’ve often described myself as “a voice in the wilderness” and I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that most people (including my mom) don’t understand what I do. But after 15 years, I’ve started questioning how much more of this I want to take? It feels like time for a change but what does that look like?
I’ve started thinking of myself as a mad scientist in search of a laboratory. Is this a fitting new metaphor that can serve as a guide as I explore what’s out there, or is it a futile quest? Ahhh, the mental gymnastics begin anew….
This morning, however, as I watched the sun rise fully over the trees and had to close my eyes to its brightness, I could still see it through my closed lids and feel the warmth — yes warmth, even in 5 degree cold — on my face. Then something shifted. Released. Let go.
Deep calm came next, and a knowing that I’m on the path. I’m not lost or floundering or stuck. I’m right where I need to be. The sun — both real and proverbial — is lighting my way if I just let go.
Letting go doesn’t mean to stop. It doesn’t mean giving up or giving in. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But I don’t always have to know exactly where I’m going. In fact — eureka! — that’s exactly what it means. Putting one foot in front of the other without knowing where the path leads. That’s trust.
Radical trust, actually, and, yes, it’s scary. And challenging. But every now and then I can look up to see the sun and where it’s leading. That’s the reward. It highlights pieces of the puzzle as they start to fall into place, bringing new dimension and clarity to the path. The change I seek is coming, and I just need to keep going, step by step.
