Ink Pots
Photograph taken by Logan Greydanus of Ivey Smith, with Purple Mountain in the background Here’s the thing, it could be a beautiful day—the sun shining, a bite in the air heralding a crisp fall, leaves turning gold, life full of good things—but wait! Somewhere over there is something to worry about, I can smell it lurking behind the mulching leaves and woodsmoke; could it be a lot of somethings? That’s my specialty—the more anxiety the better—I pride myself in my ability to multitask worry. I’ll take ten people, places, or things, completely irrelevant to the present moment, and worry about all of them, dividing my attention evenly among the stressors, until I am choking on the apparent immediacy of all of them.
Oh yes, there’s more.
Not only do I allow myself to get in a snit about things I have no control over, that may or may not actually come to fruition (but they could, hard to say really), I was built without the ability to compartmentalize literally any part of my internal landscape. There’s emotion bleeding all over the place; at some point the Happy ink pot tipped over into the Sad bucket and the Excited cauldron is always boiling over, spitting froth into the Serenity serum, and everything is Funny even when it should be Serious, because those two paint cans were mislabeled, and Stress is a pressurized aerosol, which goes off at unpredictable intervals, misting everything with a palm-sweat-inducing sense of urgency.
The cherry on top of the sundae—let’s stick with fudge, I never cared much for maraschino cherries—is that I am an alcoholic, and I wasn’t created with that handy on/off switch that most humans come fully equipped with from the get-go. You know, the emergency abort-mission button you hit before things go totally overboard? Moderation. It used to be a dirty word—the He Who Must Not Be Named of my vocabulary—today, though, it isn’t so much a foul word, as it is a confounding one. Restraint is the exhibit in the art museum that I visit occasionally to marvel at, like a Van Gogh painting that I enjoy ogling but could never replicate, not even remotely.
Photograph of Logan, with Mount Owen looming in the distance The internal chaos that is my brain just can’t quite manage to get all the ink back into the pots once everything spills out; the colors start bleeding together, staining the hardwood, morphing into something entirely unrecognizable that might be a feeling or—wait, how do I process that emotion? I can’t even tell what color it used to be… Regardless, I am carried off by the sensation. My feelings—no matter how mystifying—rarely happen half-way, and while I tend towards indecisiveness, I hate living in a gray area, so I usually make an immediate choice to avoid the relative discomfort of uncertainty. But after feeling and choosing in haste, I’m sometimes left standing on a precipice, full of self-doubt, a situation that could have been entirely avoided had I just been able to jerk up on that handy emergency break, you know, the one I don’t have.
No matter, though, because believe it or not, balance and self-moderation are qualities that can be acquired and honed with practice; and through them, anyone can find peace.
Sounds so simple. Yeah.
Being that I was hardwired an addict—something that cannot be undone, mind you, I will always be predisposed to have addictive, obsessive, excessive tendencies—I have had to work hard to develop healthy coping skills in my adulthood. Basically, it took until well after college for me to realize that starving myself was not an appropriate response to anxiety and a lack of self-confidence, nor was boozing myself into a black-out a skillful way to “handle” the prickly emotions of fear and resentment. I had to learn to check myself when I had a destructive thought—I am in mental anguish; wouldn’t it be nice if that awful sensation could be replaced with physical anguish? It’s hunting season, right? If I got hit by a stray bullet I wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore, I could focus on not bleeding to death instead, right? Right. You insane lunatic, you’re absolutely right. But seriously?
On a daily basis, I am reminded that I am indeed a little bit… extra.
Here is the amazing part, though—my Ah-Ha Moment—rarely are any of those overwhelming thoughts in my head based on reality. The mental anguish I experience is usually caused by a slurry of confused emotions and tipped over ink pots, and it comes to me in a completely unmoderated form, with the message “BE STRESSED” spray painted across it in crimson; if I pause long enough to really think about the message I am receiving, though, I can see that the thing my brain is telling me to be upset about isn’t even relevant to the moment I’m supposed to be existing in, and maybe it isn’t even real at all.
Photograph of Ivey, cresting the final summit of the Ruby Range Traverse, Ruby Peak “Be where your feet are,” yeah?
The Addict in me says, “Nah, girl, you go ahead and freak out, wallow, writhe.” Because the Addict wants to use my distress as a means to justify some form of unhealthy behavior, to use it as an excuse to disconnect, withdraw, and numb.
I am wiser now—not less of an alcoholic—to the part of my brain that wants to beat itself repeatedly against a wall, expecting a unicorn to appear instead of the splitting headache that always follows.
At the heart of my generalized anxiety and overwhelm, the reason I so often find myself reeling from complex emotions I can’t quite process and package into something tidy, is this fear I have of being seen, like really seen. Because what if someone sees a raw, unpolished, human part of me and hates it? What if I am rejected by someone I love for an aspect of me I have no control over? How will I cope?
Good question. And the answer: It’s going to f*cking suck, but I am capable of recovering from even the most searing rejections, if I commit to doing the self-work.
I will navigate the most heartbreaking moments of my future by embracing my humanity, feeling my feelings, and committing to being present for every moment of the journey, no matter how messy, confusing, or painful.
“I decided to surrender myself to the circumstances—to these strangers in our group, to the mountains, to the variable conditions and harsh weather. I decided to like the things that were otherwise uncomfortable or frustrating. Instead of turning my back to the wind, I faced into it, making me feel alive… I chose to be thankful” –Janelle Smiley, six-time ski mountaineering champion, and the first woman to cross the Alps on skis
Life is not going to magically become less risky, nor is my emotional canvas going to suddenly become less messy; the best way to handle the uncertainty and chaos is by becoming okay with not always being okay.
Photograph of Logan, above the largest Aspen grove in the ColoradoSo how can I more gracefully embrace the moments of life that are really truly painful, the ones that instill such doubt in me that I cannot even bear to open my eyes and face the day?
Gratitude. Gratitude and letting go.
Through gratitude, and relinquishing my perceived sense of control, I may achieve balance, self-moderation, and ultimately, peace.
I can’t be grateful for the moment if I’m living miles away from it. I can’t practice letting go, if I am determined to organize a mess of colorful emotions that simply won’t go back into their original tubes.
Sometimes I just have to accept life’s circumstances for what they are.
Finding appreciation for even the most brutal moments and all the feelings that come with them, is the only solution I’ve found alleviate spiritual anguish, the only appropriate answer to my fear, discomfort, and worry, and the only method I know for being present.
The times I failed to be grateful for life as it came to me, the times I refused to let myself be seen, were the times I experienced spiritual anguish to the most destabilizing degree.
Today I acknowledge I am not in control of life any more than I am of the weather. I could not have orchestrated the complexity of occurrences that lead me to this current moment, nor could I have understood them at the time of their unfolding even if the Omnipotent Being Itself held my hand and walked me step by step through the whole ordeal, while I took notes.
I’m human, and I’m not supposed to understand everything. All I can do is make the next right choice with the information I’ve got. Maybe the best thing I can do is be decisively still amid the exploding ink pots of my psyche, allowing myself to be splattered in a firework display of colors, all the while looking bravely in the eyes of Anxiety, Fear, and Discomfort, and simply recommit to being in the moment, being with gratitude, and being seen.
Photograph of Ivey, who at this point is blissfully unaware of how far she still must goThe photos included in this piece were taken on the Ruby Range Traverse, near Crested Butte, on October 4th. The route was 15.5 miles long, and included summits of Purple Mountain (12,958ft), Augusta Mountain (12,559ft), Richmond Mountain (12,501ft), Hancock Peak (12,410ft), Oh-Be-Joyful Peak (12,420ft), Afley Peak (12,646ft), Purple Peak (12,800ft), Mount Owen (13,070ft), and Ruby Peak (12,651ft). The entire traverse took 7hr & 56min to complete and involved greater than 6,000ft of elevation gain.
Photograph of Logan, running towards the summit of Purple Mountain, when the day had only just begunThank you for reading!
Happy Trails!
