"My girl, sometimes we think we've tackled the devil, but he's still right there on our shoulder, supporting us." -my mother

"I need to hear it's going to be ok," was the greeting my mother received when we met for lunch.
"From him or from me?" she queried.
"From you."
"It's going to be ok," my mother said to me.

Life is full of uncertainty, and sometimes I just need to hear from my mother that it's going to be ok. I've needed to hear this at different times, notably when I'm feeling overwhelmed: for example, the first time I got dumped when I was 20 years old, and what a shock that was. It's sort of laughable now, since it's hardly a big deal anymore, but at the time I was pretty upset. And so my remarkable mother whisked me away for the weekend to go south of the border. We took long, long walks on the beach, during which she taught me all about international economics. To this day I can tell you about the relationship between foreign investment and the value of currency. She knows how to distract me, by stimulating my inquisitive nature. Though I do remember at one point thinking back to my relationship that had just ended, and considering how my life would look different now that my ex was no longer a part of it. Change can be frightening.

"Am I going to be ok?" I asked my mother.
"Yes," my mother said, with such ease and confidence. "You're going to be ok."

I've needed to hear her say this at other times too. The day I called home saying I was leaving UBC to pursue nursing because I didn't know what the hell I was doing with my life. And then there are the days you simply feel rotten, not for a reason you can easily put a finger on, but you feel like the very worst person to ever walk the earth. Thank god they're few and far between, but I've needed on those days to hear that it's ok, to be reminded the feeling won't last forever. Another time I called my mother in tears because I'd just been told that I'd been cheated on for the first time. The next morning my mother came downstairs to find me on the couch reading. She stood by the fireplace a moment, watching me and then said,

"You know there's a softness about you now. It's as though I can feel your relief."

She was able to sense what I was feeling, that despite the unfortunate situation, it somehow seemed right. And really, it did turn out to be ok. I'm fine. He's fine. We're all back on good terms, even our friends and family. We're not together anymore, but that's simply the nature of things: life is fraught with change.

What I love about my mother is that none of my so-called crises seem to phase her -- she doesn't think these times bear a lot of gravity or weight, or that they define me in any way except to make me stronger and more self-aware. She says I'm one to learn from my mistakes. I've pulled a lot of stunts over the years, wreaked my fair share of havoc, been reckless and flighty, exasperated all of my close friends by making absolutely god-awful decisions, but my mother has never thought any less of me for it. This never ceases to amaze me. In fact, I know without a doubt that she loves me, what they call unconditional love -- I've thrown so many reasons at her to get fed up and leave me to my own devices. Yet we've stuck together all these years, and so I've come to really trust the woman.

"Will it be ok if this relationship doesn't work out?" I asked my mother yesterday at lunch. But this time, she didn't give me the response I was expecting, yet it turned out to be exactly what I needed to hear.

"Have you heard the expression, Don't go borrowing trouble?" my mother asked me from across the table, serious and steely-eyed. "Whatever has you so scared," she continued, "Your reasons aren't good enough anymore. I don't want to know all the excuses you're making up out of thin air to sabotage the very thing that seems to be making you so happy. If you want to keep running, call the poor man now," she gestured to my phone on the table. "If you're going to lend patience to misery, get it over with already. But that's what everyone is expecting you to do, and I know deep down inside you hate that."

"Listen to me," my mother then said,

"It's ok to fail. Calm yourself. Stop being so intense. And cease your dust storm, weathering those around you with your needless worry."

 "And bring him over for dinner," she added. "I want to meet this one." 

Like I said, she's a remarkable woman, and a wise mother, albeit stark-raving mad at times. She has always spoken to me as an adult and an equal, even when I was a child. I've often thought she is the only person I've known to deeply understand me, despite all my running, indecisiveness and frequent poor judgment -- she sees my searching heart, my curious mind, my adventurous spirit, and that I live with the valid fears of becoming stagnant and stuck. Everyone else will roll their eyes, or mouth the words Up to her antics again, or talk about another fiasco brewing, but my mother knows me well. She understands the way I think, what scares me, what fuels my choices.

In the play A Thousand Clowns, Herb, the protagonist refuses to release his twelve-year-old nephew to child welfare authorities, declaring

"I want him to get to know exactly the special thing he is or else he won't notice it when it starts to go. I want him to stay awake... I want to be sure he sees all the wild possibilities. I want him to know it's worth all the trouble just to give the world a little goosing when you get the chance. And I want him to know the subtle, sneaky, important reason why he was born a human being and not a chair."

"What have you always loved?" I was asked the other day.

Sometimes when I come off a mountain, it's a struggle for me to adjust back to life in the city. Maybe it's all the noise, getting back to traffic, cell phones, laptops, all the pressures, obligations and expectations. For some reason, I've never been able to accept that the city is where my life lives. Despite growing up here, it has never felt like home.

Every time we come back to our vehicle after a day in the mountains, there is a part of me that wants to run in the opposite direction, or pace around explaining all the reasons we shouldn't go back. I know I'm not the only one to feel this way. Anyone who spends even a little time in the great outdoors can't help but arrive back to "civilization" with the feeling that perhaps everything we've built around us is far from real and lasting. You can't help but question the way you live your life after seeing the magnificence and antiquity of mountains, you can't help it, not after breathing in all that space and being at those heights, trekking and climbing a long steep way just to be with yourself once more. You can't help but question the smallness of your days and doings and ask yourself why.

I think there is something most of us crave, whether we be nature lovers or not: to feel that we are satisfied, to be able to say we have lived our days richly and well, and carried them out in a way that gives us a sense of meaning and accomplishment. It's an age old query to philosophize over who we are and the reasons we choose to live as we do. There's a saying that goes: 

  When you think you have it all figured out, you're screwed.   

But it's a strange thing to think that no one has any big answers. All the years I've been growing up, it's as though I've been waiting for someone to come along who will have answers for me. Someone who will sit me down and tell me what to do with my life and how to treat those around me, how to consider myself and conjure up some sort of identity, and tell me my strengths and how to fix my flaws. But that person has never shown up for me, and I'm beginning to understand -- no one with answers is coming along because we're all trying to figure it out. And at the end of the day, we're all responsible for choosing our own path.

After coming down from Tricouni this past Wednesday, I spent the next two days feeling incredibly sensitive. It's always hard, not just on me but everyone else in my life, when this happens for I'm not really myself. I find that I long and quietly mourn after a myriad of different things, none of which I can really articulate with words. Maybe it's the loss of innocence, or a desire to be a child again without a thought for what's coming. It could be that I wish to have a more simple life, to have a greater understanding of what I want, for a sense of direction and purpose. But I think this is all part of growing up.

There is joy and happiness alongside all of this of course. My family and friends are my greatest loves, and every day I say a little prayer of thanks to be able to know them, to kiss them and pass our time together. There is ecstasy in the little things, but also a sadness. And it's ok to acknowledge that. There is the knowledge that nothing lasts, that everything is transient and often fleeting. One thing I've observed so far is that time goes by quickly, and seems to hasten it's pace during the times you cherish most. I've always known not to take much for granted, and I'm glad. At least I know how to treasure.

Perhaps this is why I write everything down, because I want to look back and remember that I considered that which I love earnestly and with great care, that I never ignored the beauty of all that is around me, the people so dear to me, the many friendships, the gift of nature, my health and youth. I'm aware as well that there will be many times down the road where I'll have to question myself. I want to be able to say I've lived softly and treated others with gentleness and kindness, and that I'll be proud of the decisions I've made and the way I chose to live.

I think this is why I go into the mountains, to foster this kind of sensitivity to life, to be in a position where I must be respectful and accountable to myself and others, to keep forging my own way and know that I'm strong enough to live well...

Photos of Tricouni Peak in Paradise Valley, British Columbia. 

Who loves, raves. - Lord Byron

The last little while I have been wearing my long hair down and letting all sorts of beautiful strangers run their fingers through it. Though somehow I'm not feeling their touch or caress while being grinned at with all those teeth. In the city they’re hungry for something more than they know and while I remain unwilling to feed them, I likely don’t have anything to offer either except to bring forth my own longings.

Last night at a party in the industrial district of the city my girlfriend absconded to a dark corner with one of the two most beautiful men in Vancouver, or so I’ve been told. The theme of the night was circus carnival, so those in attendance wore outrageous and glittered costumes or exposed themselves under the paint of bright colors and outlandish designs. The top floor of the building held the dungeon where those who wished could take off what little clothing they wore, if any, to be hog-tied and swung in the air, pleasured with a feather, spanked with a paddle or jolted with an electric prong. I had never been to anything like this before, nor had I ever dressed the part. With every color of feather weaved in my hair, wearing a leopard print dress, black stilettos and mermaid blue glitter all over my eyes, I watched along with the others and swayed atop a table, soaking in the slow luxurious Indian beats of the room. The energy was that of the spectator: carnal, thick, and starving for more.

Throughout the night men and women would call out to me, and I thought to rush over to them, put my lips close to their ears and with an urgency I’ve never known tell them to call me by any other name but my own. For fear I should vanish into nothingness, should Kendra, the idea of my identity show itself in that place, I’d just stand there watching it float beyond my grasp and soon find myself without a body, without the desire to clamber up rocks and trees, to sink toes and fingers into the dirt, to drop little seeds into the earth and watch my own growth. They would be the authors of my disappearance, these strangers who will never know me, never know the depth of my love for lakes, rivers, streams, the vast space of mountains. They parade brightly for all to see, but shroud their hearts and disguise their movements, and I'm afraid when they devour me, I won't just cease to exist, but that I'll become this way.

After the carnival party, I wound down in a hot tub under the cover of night with my best friend and the two most beautiful men in Vancouver. I found myself turning my glistening back to them, thinking more about the sound of rain and the coolness of it, the breeze in the mild air, how I loved its touch against my face and the way it teased the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees.
“How erotic,” one of the men said, “that you two have never been nude in a hot tub before.”
I might have looked at him next to my best friend for a moment and considered his words, how they held no truth for me, how thrilled the two of them looked to have found each other. I went back to gazing at the night because I am the irritable cat who has been petted too much, and it would be uncouth to bite the hand stroking her.

I may live in the city, but it is not my home. My wild self is my best self, and I have yet to meet someone who brings this out in me. So far I am the only one who can, which pleases me in a way. For all the times I withdraw to drive long distances, venture into the cold and snow, climb up valleys of trees, river and rock, I just need to be lost for a while, playing and free. I'll be found some day walking through the woods, swimming in hot springs, perching myself on the top of great heights to watch over the world, humbly and in awe of all there is to see.

In a city of chaos, boiling over with absurdity, it is the only way for me -- to remain unseen. But I know the truth of my nature. I am simple. I long for what is real. All else remains a small matter of curiosity.