Discovery Happens In The Dark
A big part of living and working creatively is exploring possibilities. We hope for a moment where it all comes together: the flash of light, the brilliant realization, the big a-ha. But often, the process is completely murky. It’s feeling your way forward in the dark, keeping your eyes open, trusting your gut.
“Test drive?” he asked. I hesitated, sizing up the three strange (but reasonably friendly-looking) middle-aged men in front of me. Then I nodded at him and his companions, and tried to sound more confident than I felt. “Right. Test drive.”
We were standing in a dark and mostly deserted parking lot, where I was planning to sell my car to Gerardo, a guy who’d replied to my post on craigslist. Gerardo had come to see the car a few days earlier with his teenage daughter, and we’d already agreed on a price. This 9 p.m. meeting was just for payment and pick-up, I thought. I had the title ready. But now, he wanted a test drive. And he’d brought his two brothers along.
Just to be clear: a dark, shady parking lot was not my first choice for this little craigslist rendezvous. But Gerardo and I were dealing with a bit of a language barrier, and we’d already had a couple of miscommunications. It just seemed easiest to arrange the transaction at the same place we’d met before. You know, in broad daylight.
This is how I found myself buckled into the passenger seat of my own beat-up Chevy Cavalier, trying to remain calm while a strange man and his brother took me on a spin through the suburban Kansas City highways in the dark of night.
(Don’t tell my mom.)
It all turned out just fine: we eased back into the parking lot, Gerardo paid me for the car — peeling off bills from two fat rolls of twenties — and I handed over the title and waited for a friend to pick me up.
It was early November of 2016. Selling my car felt like closure, a marker moment. I’d spent the previous 12 months on a kind of grand adventure; living and working in 12 different cities around the U.S. and the world. That car, already on its last legs when I began the journey, had carried me a lot of those miles — across the country and back. And in the process, it had, weirdly, become the place that felt most like home to me.
But now, I had completed my 12-month adventure. I’d done the big, brave thing that I set out to do. I had come full circle, back to where I started. And the question pressing in on every side was:
Now what?
When I first dreamed up and planned out the 12 Places Project, I had no idea what would come out of it, or where I would land on the other side. The idea was born of a mix of curiosity and restlessness; a sense that my life wasn’t what I wanted it to be. I knew that by leaning into risk and stepping into the unknown, I would stir up some new things. Gain some new perspective. And I felt sure that in the process, a path for what’s next would become clear.
What actually happened after I finished the project was…well, far from clear.
The months trickled by. I sold my car to Gerardo, and bought a new one. I went on a writing retreat… and didn’t write anything. I tried to figure out what to do with my business, while sustaining myself (barely) on the few projects that dribbled in. I moved to Minneapolis for a potential job. It fell through. I stayed in a generous friend’s basement for four months. I ate a lot of fried eggs and toast.
Not exactly the impressive, brave new life I’d imagined.
But here’s the thing: even though the lack of clarity was killing me, I knew I was on the right track. It was slow going, but I knew that if I kept feeling my way forward, kept listening and trusting myself, things would fall into place. I just had to keep moving.
For months, I didn’t share much publicly about where I was at after the journey ended. My blog stopped abruptly when I wrapped up my 12th month. I told myself it was because I needed some time to regroup after a year of travel and endless transition. But the truth is, what I really wanted was to have an ending to the story. A good ending. I wanted a way to tie things up neatly — to be able to say, “I went on this epic journey, and it changed me, and now here’s what I’m doing. Ta-da! It all worked out beautifully, the risk was worth it, and it launched me into this new, exciting life.”
End scene, applause, curtain. Oprah calls. Krista Tippett wants to chat about the mysteries of life, work, and the cosmos. You know, Eat Pray Love-style adventure.
I wanted the movie version. Or, I thought I did.
That big crescendo, the triumphant end?
It never happened. It’s not part of my story. But what I’ve realized is that to settle for a great ending is to stop exploring. And that’s not the life I want. I want to keep pushing into the unknown. I want to keep making leaps, and figuring out how my wings work on the way down. I want to regularly venture into wild, uncharted places that don’t have maps.
Here’s one thing I know: discovery happens in the dark.
There’s a lot of glitter and fireworks around the moment of discovery: the flash of light, the brilliant realization, the big a-ha moment. And of course there is. Who doesn’t love that? But the whole process before the actual moment of discovery is often…completely murky. It’s feeling your way forward, keeping your eyes open, trusting your gut. Trying things. Trying different things. Exploring.
And all of that happens in the dark — where you can’t really see much, and don’t entirely know where you’re going.
So, what’s next? I still don’t entirely know. And I think that’s pretty exciting.
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About the Author: Erin Rufledt helps companies develop their strategic messaging and brings it to life with visual design. She’s the founder of Luminary Lab, a communication design company that works with leaders and companies to align their vision, their brand and their marketing to win more business and clearly communicate about the work they do.
Originally published at the-reframe.com on July 7, 2017.
