Katie Wright

If today is harder than yesterday

Katie Wright — Mon, 20 Jan 2020 00:20:48 GMT

I wrote once, years ago when I was in law school, that sometimes I felt like a little mole, digging in the darkness. That there are times in one’s life when there seems to be no light and no purpose outside of this one action: to move dirt and move through.

It is a January Sunday in Ohio, and outside my door the flurries fly, pushed at times by a gust of howling wind, and then settling into swirls, spinning down to the frozen ground. I have to smile; one must be a hardy sort of animal to live in this climate.

Perhaps this January, for you, is a time of moving dirt and moving through?

Perhaps the lives of others seem bright and warm where yours is hard and laborious. Perhaps the past was summer beams of happiness where the present is dark and aching. (Ah! The easy, fairy-dusted false past, always presenting us with the highlight reel and never the truth!)

Well little mole, I have a few thoughts for you…

You will, believe it or not, look back on this time fondly. If this is your time to dig — dig yourself back to light, work the soil of your life, this is the time of your life. This is the fighting time, the montage moment, the weeks or months you will always look back on as legendary.
Please do not fall prey to the past. Your mind, when it recalls the past, is a little like a biased news source. It will only feed you the positive things that happened; it will make it seem that the past was wonderful and the present is miserable; it will try (always!) to suck away your energy from the present, to spend it uselessly reliving a fake news version of the past. Do not let it! Change the channel. Remember that the past had its share of difficulties; that you are working to make the future better.
Do not expect things to be easy or bright or happy right now. Let them be dark and difficult if that is what they are. As author and blogger Mark Manson says, “embrace the suck.” This is the not the time of reaping – it is the time of sowing. So don’t expect the fruit of your labor. Only expect to labor. Believe it or not, knowing that there is a time for everything, and that this is the time for difficulty, makes the difficulty oddly satisfying.

When the light and warmth returns, and it will, you will be thrilled with the digging you did when it was dark and cold.

Do not think, “I should be happy.” Put away the shoulds for now. Dissolve any expectations of how you ought to feel – and just feel the way you feel. And dig. The digging is the important part right now.
Trust that this time is fleeting. Whatever the digging is for you right now – whether it is repairing something broken in your life, strengthening your self-discipline, recovering from a grief or setback, or just going to work and back every day – there will be a time when your head pops up over the surface of the soil, and suddenly there is dizzying, glorious light again.

When the light and warmth returns, and it will, you will be thrilled with the digging you did when it was dark and cold. If you are feeling demoralized, this difficulty has come to give you new morale, to give you confidence again. Embrace it and be thankful for it, for the work you are doing is doing a great work in you. Keep digging.

How life can be light as a feather this Christmas

Katie Wright — Thu, 20 Dec 2018 19:38:57 GMT

“I’m sorry. He said what?”

I had been finishing my morning coffee when I’d decided to check in with the AAA insurance representative. (In hindsight, contacting an insurance adjuster first thing is not the morning ritual I recommend.)

A few weeks ago, I was driving through downtown Dayton on a Friday night when a black SUV pulled through a stop sign and smashed into the side of my car. After we both pulled over, the college student behind the wheel apologized profusely, told me this was his first accident, and asked me what would happen next.

I told him everything would be fine, that the officers would take a report, and that we would both be free to go.

“So how does your insurance work?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said, trying to be gentle. “Unfortunately your insurance is going to have to cover this, since it was your fault.”

His eyes, which had been as big as saucers, began to darken.

“Why’s that?” He asked. “Even if it was a mutual accident?”

This was getting awkward, but I forged on.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s because you ran a stop sign. It’s OK and we’re both fine, but it will be your insurance.”

He dejectedly returned to his car.

When the officer finally arrived, he was barely out of his squad car when the young man blurted out, “My car wasn’t moving. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

The officer walked around my car, took a cursory look at my smashed rear passenger door, and chuckled.

“Let’s not play games man,” he said. “You want to explain how your car did that to hers without moving?”

The poor kid was practically shaking and his eyes were saucers again, but he was committed now.

“It wasn’t moving. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

The officer had long lost patience with this poor young man by the time he’d changed his story again. This time, he was unable to see my car because he was under a bridge. At least in this version, his vehicle was moving.

But I wasn’t expecting a third story when I contacted AAA.

“Ma’am, my insured tells me that you took a turn too tightly and hit his vehicle,” the woman said curtly.

I burst out laughing, which was apparently not well taken.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “It’s just that he told the officer two other stories. And it’s not possible for cars to drive sideways.”

“Ma’am, it’s a he-said, she-said situation,” the rep replied dryly. “We’ll have to investigate it further.”

I got off the phone, emailed her a copy of the police report, and then sat and stared for a minute.

I stared at my Christmas tree.

And I thought, people aren’t always who you want them to be.

They’re not always honest, or kind, or respectful, or even decent. They do selfish things and they act foolishly and sometimes — this is the hardest to swallow — they hurt you and go on, without thinking another thought about it.

I breathed and I stared, and I remembered something that happened to me ten years ago.

I was a reporter rushing back to the newsroom with a story, and somehow I must have been distracted. At a red light, I looked up suddenly, slammed on my brakes, and screeched straight into the car ahead of me with a sickening thud.

My timing was impeccable, for a police officer happened to be driving by in the oncoming lane at that very moment. It had to have been the easiest report he’d ever written.

My victim was an elderly gentleman who got out of his car, looked at me, looked at his car, looked at the officer, and smiled.

“Officer,” he said. “This is a sweet young girl and clearly she didn’t mean any harm. Is it OK if you just skip the citation and we can all be on our way?”

The officer, who was already eagerly writing the citation, stopped short.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “This was very clearly her fault.”

“Yes,” the man smiled warmly. He took my hand, told me he was a pastor, and said he hoped the rest of my day went better than this.

After I’d thanked him and apologized profusely, I drove away, parked at a nearby gas station, and cried.

And I promised myself that if I was ever in a position to offer grace the way that kind pastor had, I would do it.

The other night when the Dayton Police Officer said, “I’ll leave it up to you whether I write the other driver a citation,” I’d said, “No, don’t write him a ticket,” and I’d made a point to go back to his window and kindly say goodbye and that it was OK before I left.

And today I looked at my Christmas tree and thought, grace isn’t just for people who apologize.

Forgiveness isn’t relegated to those who own up to their faults and repent and accept it with gratefulness. It’s so much deeper and more generous than that.

The lights glimmer on the tree, and it is the time of year when we’re coming to the end of so many things.

Little hurts, like pebbles, piled up in 2018, didn’t they?

But with joy and a little awe I realize, forgiveness isn’t controlled by the guilty.

Those who wrong us don’t have the option of reducing or negating our grace. They don’t have the power to obtain it or reject it, and nothing they say or do can affect its quality or its quantity.

Grace is about the giver.

Its strength, its depth, its relentlessness in the face of mounting hurts — all are a function not of the remorse of the guilty, but of the character of the forgiver. In a paradox worthy of the universe itself, the wronged wield the most powerful gift of all.

The year winds down and the twinkling lights glitter bravely against the cold, and this is the meaning of Christmas.

It comes at the end of all those stings, all those stabs and jabs that piled up this year, and brings us suddenly, quietly back to the world’s greatest Grace-Giver. The one Person who stopped the cycle of “hurt people hurt people,” who took the hurt but gave the grace, who forgave people who didn’t apologize, people who didn’t give a damn one way or the other.

The injustices are many, but the grace can always be greater. We can choose to let the heavy things fall away, the rocks in our hands dissolve into nothing, the hardness inside melt to joy.

And we are forgiven and we are given the power to forgive, a gravity-defying power, one that makes us free again, from both guilt and bitterness, just in time for a fresh new year.

I look at the police report on my end table and chuckle. A fender bender, and a metaphor for many things.

As the year winds down, can we take a moment to smile with relief? We don’t need to wait on an apology anymore, from anyone.

It’s Christmas, and life can be light as a feather again.

Grace is just that huge.

What happens when you fly in the face of fear

Katie Wright — Sun, 09 Dec 2018 21:21:23 GMT

“They say the coldest place in the world is an airplane hangar in winter.”

A sharp wind whistled through the hangars and stung my face. I laughed. The flight instructor was right.

The sun was just glinting through an opening in the silver clouds as I climbed into Tim’s Diamond DA-40 and he pulled the globe-like top down over us.

Back in October, a good friend of mine had connected me with Tim, a pilot and flight instructor who owns a plane. Tim had volunteered to give me an informal flight lesson as one of my adventures, but between the weather and our schedules, we hadn’t found a good time until today.

“I’m actually a little scared of flying,” I told Tim as I buckled my seatbelt, carefully avoiding the control stick between my legs. “That’s one of my reasons for doing this.”

My casual tone belied the truth. I was terrified. Anyone who has ever had a panic attack at 30,000 feet will understand; your legs want the ground back – if only to run far away – and your mind starts telling you things are out of control.

I was already starting to feel a little shaky, but I had made up my mind when I’d gotten out of bed this morning. I didn’t care if I passed out; I was getting on this plane and staying on it.

Tim was reassuring.

“There are actually a lot of stories about people who overcame their fear of flying and went on to become pilots, or even stunt pilots,” he said.

We rumbled slowly toward the runway.

People made careers out of their worst fears?

An incoming plane soared in for a landing next to us.

These people didn’t just move toward the fear. They moved past the barrier of fear and found a whole new life. What would have happened, I wondered, if they’d never gotten on the plane?

Tim was moving the throttle forward and his voice came through my headset.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” I said, and in a flash we were tilted back, taking off toward the sky.

I had fully expected a wave of panic during the take-off, but I found myself instead engrossed in the horizon, the land fading away behind us, and the sunlit hazy sky ahead.

We took off toward the north and then Tim tilted the plane southward, opening my side to a sweeping view of the land below.

Tim pointed out landmarks; the Lebanon Correctional Institution, I-75, the little boroughs that dot northern Cincinnati. Tim pointed out the hazy outline of downtown and then showed me on the computer where its airspace started.

We were nearing Cincinnati when I confessed I needed a bathroom break.

“That’s fine,” Tim said. “We can stop and then come back up again.”

By the time we’d landed and taken a break, I jumped back in the plane and jokingly offered to handle the takeoff.

Tim laughed.

“You can take over once we get up there,” he said.

When we were back up, he told me to take my control stick and make a 360-degree turn to the left. I pulled the stick to the left and watched the ground open up beneath me as the plane tilted.

“Keep the nose up,” Tim said, which I interpreted to mean that we were helplessly nosediving. I yanked the stick toward me and felt the plane turn sharply up.

I was relieved to see that Tim’s hand was on his control stick, which was overriding mine.

“You’re fine,” he said, letting go again as we headed to the west. “It’s not going to fall out of the sky, I promise.”

By the time we made it over the line into Indiana, I’d made several 360-degree turns. I was learning to keep the tilt steady as I maintained altitude, watching the computer screen in front of me, as well as the nose and the horizon.

As we lowered altitude on the way back to the airport, the plane shook in the wind while I remained in control. That was an unnerving feeling.

Tim laughed as I steered us to the runway.

“OK. I’ll talk you through the landing. You’ll be fine,” he said.

I laughed and immediately relinquished the stick.

“Hold on to it just so you can see how it feels,” he said. Both sticks moved together as Tim steered us gently down until the plane bounced lightly onto the runway.

“One bump, but it was your first landing, so I’ll give you that,” Tim smiled.

As the plane taxied back to the hangar, I thought about how many people are afraid of flying, and about the people who overcame it to become pilots. I tell myself this all the time, but it deserves a repeat: limiting ourselves is always a choice. We can let our lives be small, or we can tackle what scares us head-on.

I laughed. A wall of fear had disintegrated today into nothing. I flew a plane to Indiana and back. I was pretty sure I could do anything.

Twelve ways to have a more adventurous winter

Katie Wright — Mon, 12 Nov 2018 19:02:25 GMT

This morning, I noticed that the leaves on the old maple out my front window were sparser than yesterday. The tree had shifted from its brilliant autumn orange to a bare and brittle brown.

Well, it is November, I thought. Winter is on its way.

For some, the coming of winter means a time of hibernation, of keeping indoors. For many of us, it’s just plain harder to move in the winter. Just leaving the driveway may mean a hike through a snowdrift, and then we face icy roads, sleet-covered windshields and dark drives. It’s easy to let the season pass while we watch it out the window from the couch.

For many, a combination of the lack of sunlight and so much time indoors can bring on depression and fatigue, which makes it even harder to move.

But here is my challenge to you this winter: do more. Resist the urge to hibernate, rise to greet the season and get moving toward an adventurous, daring, fun winter.

It’s often hard to think of fun things to do on a gloomy winter day, so I am offering up twelve of my favorite ways to have a more adventurous winter. Enjoy!

1. Go on Sunday afternoon hikes

The best thing about Sunday afternoon winter hikes is the feeling you have when you come home and warm up. Not only are the woods beautiful in winter, with stunning frozen creeks and falls, but you’ll get plenty of fresh air and exercise before coming back home to nice dry clothes and a cup of hot chocolate. If your fingers and toes get a little numb, they’ll warm up in time, I promise!

2. Cultivate a new skill in your garage/basement/spare room

Whether you’re woodworking, fixing up an antique car or trying your hand at painting, create a new workstation for yourself and spend some time there this winter. Try to make your workstation as bright as possible and bring in heat if necessary. Get out the old project you’ve let sit all this time and make it your goal to finish it this winter!

3. Find a coffee and sunrise spot

The sunrise is earlier now that we’ve turned our clocks back, and there is nothing more beautiful or inspiring than a winter sunrise. If you have extra time in the morning, find a place nearby where you can watch the sunrise either from your car or (if you’re brave!) outside. Make time to sip coffee and watch the sunrise a few times a week.

4. Volunteer your snow shoveling skills

Find one person who struggles to shovel their driveway or sidewalk and help them out in heavy snows. If you’re in a safe spot, put in earbuds with your favorite music, bundle up, and make it a fun workout. I guarantee you will feel warm and happy after this exercise.

5. Learn to ski or snow board

If you want to have an adventurous winter, there is nothing better than learning an epic new outdoor skill. If you’re nervous, take baby steps. Buy a sled and hit some big local hills first. Then, sign up for a beginner skiing class. Who knows? You may love it so much that you’re sad when spring arrives!

6. Practice drifting in an empty parking lot

If you are at all nervous about driving on icy roads, I recommend this exercise! Find an empty, snowy parking lot and practice braking, sliding and gaining control of your car. This is not just for fun but will give you more confidence for winter driving. If you can squeeze a few donuts in, bonus points!

7. Get to know your neighbors
This winter, make the trek through the snow to the folks next door. If you can, bring a plate of cookies or some pumpkin bread. Chances are, they’re at home hibernating too and could benefit from some community and company. If you already know your neighbors, level up to the local nursing home or hospital. You could be the best part of someone’s cold winter day.

8. Learn to dance

OK, I’m a ballroom dance instructor so maybe this is cheating, but I fell in love with dancing in the winter, and it’s truly the best season to learn. There is nothing like coming out of the ballroom after a few hours of dancing and cooling off in the icy air. Plus, you’ll meet so many new people!

9. Make a fire on the shore of a frozen creek
There is nothing like fire to cheer one’s spirits on a frigid day, and if you can make one outdoors by a body of water, you just won winter. Warm up and enjoy the beauty of the season.

10. Explore a cave

This one is still on my list. The Ohio Caverns, located in West Liberty, allow you to travel about 100 feet underground to stunning, well-lit caves. No one wants to spend a bright summer day underground, so winter is your season! Pick a gloomy day and spend it checking out the stalactites and stalagmites of Ohio’s incredible underground world.

11. Take your exercise routine outside

When I was little, my older brother Brian and I poured over survival books and magazines. I remember a book Brian read about an early exploration trip to Antarctica. Facing dangerous subzero temperatures, the explorers did the opposite of huddling inside their tents or beside fires. Instead, they took snow baths in the morning to condition their bodies to the cold. While I don’t necessarily recommend snow baths, I do believe you can condition and toughen your body, making it more impervious to the cold. Do a portion of your daily workout outside, even if it’s just running around the block. Own winter – don’t let it own you!

12. Become a winter person

If you ask most people what their favorite season is, most will probably say fall, spring or summer. (I’m a fall person). You won’t hear from many winter people. But honestly, there is so much to love about winter: breathtaking sunrises and sunsets, blankets of beautiful snow, a fresh crisp feeling in the air, and so many opportunities for fun and adventure. This year, embrace your inner hardiness and make winter your favorite season.

Adversity, adventure and being antifragile

Katie Wright — Tue, 06 Nov 2018 21:25:54 GMT

Before I had anxiety, I never thought about my heart.

But for a few years after my first panic attack, I had whole stretches where I felt like I was having a heart attack every other day.

I would call my Dad from work.

Chest pains, I would describe. My heart is pounding. I’m dizzy and nauseated. I feel like I can’t breathe.

My Dad would reaffirm what multiple doctors and dozens of sources on anxiety already had. There was nothing wrong with my heart.

Talking to my Dad almost always calmed me down.

But deep inside, I was still afraid. I felt like the stress and the anxiety might kill me, like my heart wasn’t strong enough. Deep inside, I felt fragile.

It took me a long time to learn that fragility, like rigidity, is a mindset, an attitude.

And its opposite – antifragility – is also a mindset.

I was first introduced to the concept of antifragile in one of my all-time favorite books, Level Up Your Life by Steve Kamb. In the book, Kamb discusses three possibilities in life: being fragile, being sturdy, and being antifragile.

Something that is fragile is easily broken. It has to be wrapped up and protected and treated gingerly. At the first whiff of chaos, a fragile thing will break.

Something that is sturdy doesn’t need to be protected as much. It can handle more chaos.

But something that is antifragile thrives on chaos. Much like our bodies are capable of healing and becoming stronger from pain and difficulty, the antifragile person embraces the growth and strength that comes from pain and difficulty. The antifragile person seeks new challenges and problems to make his or herself stronger.

Reading about this concept was a life-changer for me. I shifted to an attitude of embracing things I once tried to avoid. I realized that…

If I was feeling fear, I was growing braver
If I was feeling weak, I was actually getting stronger
If I was in pain, I was becoming tougher
If I was cold, I was increasing my capacity for cold
If I was failing, I was learning

Rocky Balboa in the final Rocky movie is the hero of the antifragile mindset.

“It ain’t about how hard you hit,” he says. “It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”

“Antifragile – don’t handle with care!” Steve Kamb writes. “Like the mythical Hydra: cut off one head, and two heads appear in its place. In fact, antifragile objects can become weaker if you don’t mishandle them.”

Our bodies and minds, Kamb explains, are designed to be antifragile. Our muscles rebuild themselves stronger when exerted; our bodies build up resistances from sickness; and it’s by getting burned that we learn that the stove is hot.

This was an epiphany for me.

That which we seek to avoid is what we need. We would be nothing without adversity.

In the last couple years, I’ve run multiple 5Ks, danced till 7 o’clock in the morning and done things that scare me so much that my heart feels like it will pound itself to death.

But I’ve gotten stronger. And my heart is stronger.

Anyone who has ever had a degree of anxiety knows how fragile it can make you feel. But the opposite is actually true.

And when you embrace an antifragile mindset, you turn that fear on its top, and you open up a whole new world of adventure and experiences.

31. Baking Halloween cookies for the nursing home

Katie Wright — Thu, 01 Nov 2018 03:27:44 GMT

A few weeks ago, I called Wilmington Nursing and Rehab to ask if I could bring a batch of cookies to the residents.

Having lived within two blocks of the nursing home for the last two years, I’ve often wanted to go visit with the residents, but could never seem to get over the small hump to do it. Our minds are always throwing excuses in our paths to not do things like that, but when we actually do, it’s not only ridiculously easy, but wonderfully fulfilling.

I called. Jodi, the event coordinator, was thrilled.

“How about the 31^st?” she asked. “It would be a nice Halloween event for the residents.”

This, I decided, would be my 31^st adventure. I started planning backwards from here.

After a three-day trip to Lake Erie which didn’t include much sleep, I was crashing on Wednesday.

But at 4 p.m., I was in the kitchen with my wonderful friend Katie and sister Sarah, baking up a storm of delicious treats.

We made pumpkin cookies, sugar cookies and iced brownies, as well as sugar-free iced brownies for residents with diabetes.

My apartment, which had transformed into a mess of suitcases, backpacks, coats and muddy shoes in the aftermath of this adventurous month, needed attention. Sarah buzzed around, swiffering and vaccuming, while Katie busied herself in the kitchen packaging the brownies.

Then our reinforcements showed up, ready to head to the nursing home. I changed into my ridiculous cow costume and we headed up the road.

It was warm and bright in the nursing home. We were greeted by happy residents who loved the costumes and were excited to get a special Halloween treat. Every single person had a laugh or a smile for us.

A kind nurse walked around with us to advise us of dietary needs as we went. Within 20 minutes, we were done.

After we left, I wished I’d gotten to spend more time with the residents. I realized that I had gone in hopes of lifting their spirits, but they had actually lifted mine.

Like so many times this month, I was happy I had stepped out of my comfort zone, and thankful for the wonderful friends by my side. I felt like I had a new community, and also like there were plenty more friends to be made. We headed to Buffalo Wild Wings for a bite to eat and to celebrate.

We were all smiling as we walked out the front doors and back into the rain.

30. Late-night harvesting with a happy ending

Katie Wright — Thu, 01 Nov 2018 03:01:10 GMT

It was 9 p.m. when I pulled off Glady road into an adjacent soybean field. Dust permeated the air and the bright lights of a far-off harvester moved slowly across the horizon.

“Are you here? Oh, I see your car. Come on over to the combine.”

Hugh hung up the phone and I watched the harvester approach amid the dust. Overhead, the stars glittered bright and clear in the black sky.

I had needed one more adventure – Number 30 – to nearly complete my list. I called Hugh at 8:30 p.m. to ask if he would teach me how to drive his harvester.

“Yes, come on out,” he said. “We’ve got a few hours to go tonight.”

I’ve known Hugh since I was 10 years old and started working for him when I was 14. And although I pulled calves and pigs and even drove one of his tractors at the county fair tractor pull, I’d never learned to drive the combine. Being in the driver’s seat of that piece of machinery was intimidating.

“An adventure,” said G.K. Chesterton, “is only an inconvenience, rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.”

But no sooner had I arrived and pulled on my work boots than I was seated in the driver’s side of an enormous grain harvester, looking through the windshield at a 35-foot header. Hugh sat next to me and talked me through the process.

We started by putting it in gear, then slowly starting the header. It spun furiously as I pushed the button that lowered it to the ground as we headed into a patch of soybeans. Then I watched as it flung the chaff and a conveyer belt pulled the beans to the center. We watched on a screen as the auger in the back filled the bin with beans.

“Do you see the conveyer belt?” Hugh said. “That’s called a draper belt. They’re very trendy. You are in with the times, driving this thing.”

I laughed.

“I wouldn’t dream of driving anything less,” I said.

After a while, we both watched as a fallen tree got sucked into the header.

“I’ll get it,” I said.

Hugh turned off the header and I climbed down and ran to the front of the harvester. I pulled the log out and hurled it into the nearby woods, then climbed back up the ladder and started again.

We had gone around the field a few more times when I reached into my pocket for my phone and realized it wasn’t there.

“Oh no,” I said. “I think my phone might have fallen out of my pocket.”

“When you got the log I’ll bet,” Hugh said.

We drove back to the woods and Hugh parked the harvester with its bright headlights shining on the area. Both of us looked around but saw nothing. A thick layer of chaff had built up across the field. Hugh called my phone but it went straight to voicemail, making me think it was probably run over.

It was almost 11 p.m. and I knew Hugh had probably been going nonstop since well before dawn.

“Oh well,” I said. “Let’s finish the field. We can deal with this later.”

I climbed back in the driver’s seat. By this time, I was familiar with the order of choke, header spin, header down and then forward, and I’d learned to reverse. The spinning chaff and bean conveyer belt were almost mesmerizing under the lights.

I thought about what a hassle it would be to have to get a new phone, and how I would make that happen this week.

And then suddenly I just knew that no matter what happened, everything was going to be OK.

“An adventure,” said G.K. Chesterton, “is only an inconvenience, rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.”

I smiled and enjoyed harvesting the rest of the field. This, after all, was an adventure, and anything that happens as part of an adventure can be dealt with.

At 11:30 p.m. the last patch of beans was harvested and Hugh pulled the combine up to the grain bin to transport the beans.

“Alright guys,” he turned to the farm hands. “Let’s give it one last go looking for Katie’s phone.”

We all traipsed to the woods.

A minute later, I heard, “Found it.”

Isaac, one of the hands, had a good eye. The phone was cold and dusty but perfectly intact.

I thanked Hugh for teaching me to drive and jogged over to my car parked in the field. Like most adventures, this one too had had a happy ending.

29. Exploring the confederate POW camp on Johnson’s Island

Katie Wright — Wed, 31 Oct 2018 17:45:49 GMT

In 1862, Johnson’s Island was a stockade with 15-foot high fences, accessible only by boat. The 300-acre limestone island in the middle of the Sandusky Bay housed hundreds of confederate prisoners of war.

When I followed the route to get there, I came to a long, narrow land bridge guarded by a gate.

A pickup truck pulled through the gate and I rolled my window down.

“How much does it cost to get through?” I asked.

The driver smiled and gave me a four-digit code.

“Punch that in,” he said. “I saved you two bucks.”

I thanked him, dialed in the code and drove through the open gate onto the bridge.

The island is now effectively a neighborhood of high-end homes overlooking the bay. Most of the homes, I noticed, are built facing the water instead the road. Almost everyone seemed to own a boat.

But along the shore is a cemetery marking 206 confederate soldier graves – a sobering reminder of a time our country was more divided than it has ever been.

“The union prison guards just buried the confederates without graves initially.”

A man from a neighboring house had observed me walking the cemetery and joined me.

“Then, the confederates starting burying their own and constructing carefully made crosses with names carved in them,” he said. “That’s how so many graves were able to be identified.

Tame deer wandered curiously around the cemetery and walked right up to me at times. The sun was still rising in the sky just beyond the bay.

I had never realized that Ohio had so many islands, nor that one of them had ever been a POW camp accessible only by ferry.

But, I thought as I walked out of the cemetery in the morning light, I was learning quite a lot this trip.

28. Watching the sunrise from the Marblehead Lighthouse

Katie Wright — Wed, 31 Oct 2018 04:19:02 GMT

Oh my. This isn’t what I had expected.

I pulled my suitcase through the door of a dimly lit hotel room that smelled unnervingly like a funeral home.

Wooden bedframes and antiquated lamps stood out against the floral carpet and lacy bedcovers. It was a quaint room and I was thrilled to see a coffee pot and hear the calls of seagulls outside my window, but for some reason I felt unnerved.

When I had booked the OurGuest Inn and Suites in downtown Port Clinton last Saturday, I had known I wasn’t getting anything luxurious for $50 a night. But this, I realized, didn’t feel like a hotel room at all.

It felt like being alone on the third floor of Miss Havisham’s house in Great Expectations.

Every sunrise story starts the night before, and the night before I watched the sunrise from the Marblehead Lighthouse, I didn’t get much sleep.

I got settled in to the room, and went out into Port Clinton to find dinner. At 9 p.m., everything was dark, abandoned and closed. I finally drove through Wendy’s and brought a burger back to the room. I had writing to do anyway.

The elevator shook so mightily on the way down to the lobby that I avoided it altogether on the way back, running up the empty staircase to the room.

By one o’clock in the morning, I had finished writing and was ready to crash for the night. But I was rattled for some reason. Every creak in the floor made me jump. I deadbolted the door and felt compelled to shove my suitcase up against it as well. It bothered me that the key they gave me had safety tips on it, like “report suspicious behavior immediately.” I couldn’t shake the desire to pack up my stuff and leave.

Finally, I laughed and decided that the overwhelming dead-flower smell had gotten to my head.

It was 1:30 a.m. by the time I set my alarm for 7 a.m. and turned the switch on the old lamp over my bed. I had to admit the bed was the most comfortable of the three I’d slept on this trip.

When my alarm sounded at 7 a.m., approximately two seconds after I finally went to sleep, the bed felt overwhelmingly warm and comfortable.

But if I was going to make the Marblehead Lighthouse by sunrise at 8, I had to get going. I pulled myself out of bed and started the coffee pot. This hotel, at least, had a coffee pot, a hair dryer and a few other essentials that the Motel 6 had lacked.

It was close to 8 am. and rays of sunlight were already warming the sky when I said farewell to the OurGuest Inn and hit the road toward Marblehead.

I worried that I wouldn’t make it in time, but just as I pulled into the empty parking lot, I caught a glimpse of the sun peering around the side of the lighthouse.

In the heyday of wooden schooners, when ships carried merchandise in barrels from the Port of Sandusky, they risked striking the rocks surrounding the Marblehead peninsula. Formerly known as the Sandusky Bay Light, the Marblehead Lighthouse has warned ships of the nearby rocks since the mid-1800s.

I found a large rock to sit on close to the water and sipped my coffee.

I mused that I had seen more sunrises in the last 30 days than in the last couple years. I hadn’t prioritized them, I guess, until now.

I took another sip of coffee. The lighthouse stood, silent and proud, against the glowing sky. Water lapped at my boots.

This was worth waking up for.

27. An unexpected moment on Catawba Island

Katie Wright — Tue, 30 Oct 2018 20:43:29 GMT

Some moments take your breath away.

When I found myself sitting alone on the rocks at Catawba Island State Park, watching the sun throw orange flares across the waves, I had to laugh and shake my head.

How did I end up here?

There had been so many coincidences this month, so many times I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.

I thought back to how quickly I’d made the decision to commit to 31 adventures this month. The idea had come to me and I’d acted, almost before I’d had time to think.

And I thought about how quickly I’d made the decision to drive up to Lake Erie. Within minutes of hearing I could catch a fishing charter the next morning, I’d booked a sketchy hotel (more about that later) and hit the road.

And finally, the minute I’d spotted the orange streaks of sunset in the sky, I had hung a u-turn on 269 North and just followed the sunset and the signs for Catawba Island.

I was nearly speeding along the shoreline, expecting the last flares to disappear any minute. I had no idea what or where Catawba Island was, but I kept following the signs, hoping to catch the last fading flares of the sunset over the water.

I thought I would miss it.

And yet, one minute after I’d pulled in to the empty parking lot, the sun appeared just over the water in a dazzling sight.

There had been so many coincidences this month, so many times I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.

I sat for a long time watching it until it had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving a pink hue across the sky. A few distant fisherman stood on a dock to the west, but I was alone with my thoughts.

I wasn’t even sure how I’d ended up here. But here I was, and I knew this was exactly where I should be.

26. Hiking the shoreline at East Harbor State Park

Katie Wright — Tue, 30 Oct 2018 20:25:17 GMT

I can’t believe this is Ohio.

Having never been to Marblehead or the dozens of ports and harbors that dot the Lake Erie shore, I felt sometimes like I was in a coastal state as I drove past seafood restaurants, boat docks and outdoor bars.

But when I pulled into East Harbor State Park as the sunlight glistened off the lake, I knew I was in Ohio again.

Known for its friendly deer herds, marshes and lake view trails, East Harbor State Park was alive with autumn colors when I got out of my car and made my way to the lake.

I sat on the rocks overlooking the lake and stared for a long time.

Then I took off hiking, following a trail through the woods. I could hear the water lapping against the shore just outside the tree line. Now and then, a break in the woods gave way to a stunning view of the lake.

The trail led up and down small hills, always keeping close to the shore. I could hear distant fishing boats making their way across to the harbor at Marblehead.

I paused in the woods for a while, warming in the sunlight and absorbing the autumn colors in the woods around me.

Later, I watched a herd of deer cross from the marshes to the woods. I didn’t stop my car. Having just finished with the African Safari, I’d had enough animals come through my windows.

But as I pulled out of the park, it was hard to take my eyes off the woods and lake in the rearview mirror. It had been one of my favorite places to visit.

25. Sneezed on by an Alpaca at the African Safari Wildlife Park

Katie Wright — Tue, 30 Oct 2018 04:06:35 GMT

“I think your animals might be coming down with a little cold.”

I had run into an employee cleaning out a stall at the sprawling African Safari in Port Clinton, Ohio.

He turned to me and laughed.

“Well, the alpaca sneezed on me during the drive-through,” I smiled.

It was not the only exciting encounter I’d had during the drive-through. When I had entered the gift shop to purchase my ticket – an $11 day pass on groupon – the woman at the register said, “Are you alone?”

I looked around at the shelves of stuffed animals, children’s safari hats and snacks.

“Yes,” I said.

Apparently it’s cheap to visit the African Safari when you’re a lone adult on a Monday morning in their off season. But as I drove through, amazed at how close I could get to the animals, I decided that’s the best way to do it.

Situated in the sprawling farm country on the outskirts of Port Clinton, the African Safari Wildlife Park boasts fourteen different species in its drive-through tour, including elk, Scottish highlander cattle, kudus and zebras.

I was the only person going through the park and was accosted by alpacas in the first segment. They rejected the carrots and other feed I’d purchased, pushing their long necks all the way in through my car window.

One put his face to my ear and sneezed, flinging llama snot across my face, all over the steering wheel and all the way to the windshield.

“OK, moving on,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve.

Next there were deer, elk and bongos. One ankole bull with vast horns was so excited about the carrots that he nearly came in through my passenger side door.

But the best part was the buffalo. I had to keep myself from gunning the engine when I looked up from the herd of small deer I was feeding and noticed a small group of buffalo ahead. I nearly screamed with excitement when a full-size male came up to my window and tried to poke his enormous head in to sniff me.

I stayed with the buffalo for a long time, feeding them the last of my carrots and feed. Then I drove out the gravel road through the high gate.

After reassuring me that the animals’ sniffles were merely seasonal, the employee told me I’d picked a good time to come.

“I’ve seen people lined up so far out here that they run out of gas waiting for the gates to open up,” he said.

I wiped a bit more alpaca snot off my chin and agreed. Not a bad Monday morning at all.

24. Fresh-caught Walleye cheeks at the Crow’s Nest on Lake Erie

Katie Wright — Tue, 30 Oct 2018 02:29:59 GMT

“There she is! I have to say, you took today like a champ.”

Eric, the captain of the Pirate Clipper, and his first mate Jon, were sitting at the wide square bar at the Crow’s Nest when I walked in.

Situated on a dock in Lakeside Marblehead directly on the water, the restaurant is a haven of sorts for fishermen who spend the season living on their boats. Just outside the window, I could see rain falling on the bay. Across from Eric was Bear, the friendly captain of a competing charter. When I arrived, Eric was ribbing Bear about our 24 fish to his 15.

Eric looked around the room and gestured to me as I took a seat at the bar.

“This girl! For the record, I’ve never seen anyone throw up so many times and keep smiling,” he said.

The room was amused and I laughed and ordered a sprite while Jon and Eric haggled with the cook over how to fix our fish. When we’d left the boat, they had taken my six Walleye to the fish cleaner, then to the kitchen at the Crow’s Nest.

In the meantime, I had gone back to my motel, taken about an hour-long hot shower, cranked the heat up to 75, and drank a hot cup of coffee. When Eric had texted, I’d exchanged the work boots and fleece for nice jeans and a sweater and headed west toward Marblehead to go feast on Walleye.

The restaurant was cozy and bright, juxtaposed against the wind and rain across the bay outside. After a while, the cook stopped at our table.

“What do you want me to do with the cheeks?” he asked.

“Oh, I didn’t know we got cheeks,” Eric said.

“Yeah we got the cheeks,” Jon said. “Just fry them up.”

I felt silly but in my mind I couldn’t picture what part of a Walleye they were talking about.

“Cheeks?” I asked.

Jon closed his mouth and puffed out his cheeks and I laughed.

A few minutes later, the waitress had delivered a copious amount of Walleye; fried chunks, long fillets and, sure enough, a pile of pan-fried cheeks.

I popped one in my mouth right away. It was light, perfectly seasoned and delicious. On my list of planned adventures I’d written, “Eat something I’ve never eaten.” With the fresh-caught Walleye cheeks, I could cross that off the list.

As we ate, Eric and Jon told me stories about their years on the lake. They talked about storms with 10-foot waves and fish they’d caught that were literally eating other fish when they were reeled in.

But they also agreed that today had been special, too.

Eric pulled out a t-shirt and handed it to me. It said, “Pirate Clipper. Take what ye can and give nothing back.”

“You earned this today,” he said. “I’m serious. You didn’t let out a peep of complaint and we both know how sick you were. Plus, I don’t know what we would have done without you when it came to communicating with our other passengers.”

I grinned and thanked him. On the back of the t-shirt is a picture of The Pirate Clipper. I remembered the morning, the warm cabin and the cold rain, the shiny green fish and steering the ship toward the harbor.

As I walked out of the Crow’s Nest and into the rain, I smiled. I would wear it with pride.

23. Walleye, seasickness, and signing “Adventure” on The Pirate Clipper

Katie Wright — Mon, 29 Oct 2018 16:50:52 GMT

If you would have told me in the last few years that I would reconnect with my love of American Sign Language on a fishing boat in the middle of Lake Erie, I wouldn’t have believed you.

It’s funny how we all have old skills that lie dormant, sometimes for years. But when we live adventurously and try new things, it’s amazing how quickly all of our skills are needed, used and brought to life again.

I was sipping a thermos of coffee and seagulls were crying in the gray morning light when I boarded The Pirate Clipper. The captain, Eric, and his first mate John greeted me and introduced me to another passenger, Matt.

The Pirate Clipper was a stunning fishing boat, fully equipped with a warm, comfortable cabin, a deck fitting several people and two stories. Eric has been professionally chartering fishing trips for the last 11 years. As his recommendation from the other charter captain indicated, he has a reputation at the lake, not just for knowing what he’s doing, but for finding hungry Walleye every time he goes out on the water.

I climbed aboard with an excited smile.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now, I thought. That was most definitely going to change once we hit the lake.

“We’re just waiting on the last two,” Eric said. “They texted me that they are hearing impaired. You said you know sign language?”

Eric was taking a mixed group today, which he said is a rarity. Most people book as a group, so he doesn’t often have a mix of individual strangers aboard. He had never had a deaf passenger, and it was a complete coincidence that I ended up on board the same day.

We saw a middle-aged man and woman walking down the dock. They smiled, waved, and walked up. I realized immediately that they were both fully deaf.

“I’m Katie,” I signed. “I know sign language, but it’s been a while.”

They both grinned with excitement and introduced themselves as Lori and Greg. They were brother and sister, Lori explained.

I fingerspelled the names of everyone on board and introduced them. Then we went into the warm cabin and sat down.

“I have to give a safety talk now,” John said, and amazingly I fumbled through a translation as the engine rumbled underneath us. Lori was wonderfully helpful at assisting me in learning signs. I would fingerspell the beginning of a word I didn’t know and she would show me the sign. We quickly became able to converse and began chatting as the boat took off toward the open lake.

Out on the deck, you could see hundreds of seagulls flocking across the sky in front of the rising sun. I was still drinking my morning coffee and feeling great. And then, the boat started to tilt. As the water grew choppier in the open lake, the boat tilted side to side and forward and backward in an almost circular motion.

I knew I was getting motion sick, but I ignored it. I could feel the tell-tale feeling in my eyes and stomach as I watched Eric and John put the fishing poles in place and explain what they were doing.

“We’re letting each of these lines out 100 feet,” John said.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I knew I was about to vomit, but I couldn’t decide on a polite way to broach the topic.

“Have you ever had someone lose their breakfast before?” I asked the captain lightly.

“Oh, lots and lots of times,” he said.

“Because I’m about to,” I said, and lurched over the side of the boat and retched into the choppy water. I recovered, wiped my face, and turned back around. For a few minutes, I felt good again. Then the waves of nausea started up.

I broke out in a sweat. Ten minutes later, I was draped over the side of the boat throwing up again. And ten minutes later, again. There was nothing left in my stomach so it was just dry heaving ceaselessly.

“You know the good thing about you?” the first mate said, kindly putting his hand on my shoulder and handing me a water bottle and a paper towel after the fourth time. “You’re real quiet about it.”

I chuckled. But at that point I felt like lying down and dying. I went into the cabin and sank down on the couch to rest a minute and contemplate my options. It was 9:30 a.m. and the captain had said the boat stays out for as long as eight or nine hours. If I ended up passed out on the floor, maybe I’d ask them to take me back. But until then, I told myself, I was going to have to suck it up.

I took a few sips of water and headed back out on the deck, just in time for one of the poles to bend low toward the water.

Lori spotted it and waved the captain’s attention.

I knew I was about to vomit, but I couldn’t decide on a polite way to broach the topic. “Have you ever had someone lose their breakfast before?” I asked the captain lightly. “Oh, lots and lots of times,” he said. “Because I’m about to,” I said, and lurched over the side.

“Fish!” he said.

The first mate handed me the pole.

“Reel it in, nice and easy,” he said. I turned the reel and watched the line steadily move back in. Then I could see my fish, green and smooth, flopping around and fighting the line just underneath the surface.

“Pole up! Keep reeling!” John grabbed the net and caught the fish in it just it came up out of the water.

“Is this your first Walleye?” he asked. “Because you have to kiss it.”

I held the fish and kissed it, then threw it in the cooler just in time. I had to throw up again.

By this time, I was becoming accustomed to the waves of nausea and the periodic vomiting. In between, I was actually having a fun time. It was impossible not to have fun on the deck of a fishing boat reeling in Walleye after Walleye.

In Ohio, the limit for Walleye is six per day. Eric said he’d had a streak this summer of catching the limit for each passenger every single trip. His streak had only ended the day before, when a passenger got sick and asked to go back early.

“I’d have had a perfect season,” he said wistfully. “But I did think I’d have to pick that guy up off the floor yesterday.”

By noon, we’d caught 20 fish, just under the total 24 limit for the day. Translating for Lori and Greg had been a welcome distraction and I was feeling better as we laughed, signed and caught fish after fish. They were fun, kind people who took pictures of me and cheered every time we reeled in a fish.

It had begun to rain, so Lori and I retreated to the warm cabin and conversed a while. She told me that she and Greg had two other siblings who were hearing. She teaches ASL, and Greg is a carpenter. Greg loves to fish and Lori was along for the adventure.

“Sign for A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E?” I fingerspelled.

Lori smiled and rubbed her hands together eagerly.

“Adventure,” she mouthed.

I smiled and rubbed my hands together eagerly. I liked that sign. It described how I felt.

Lori was mid-sentence when I jumped up. I barely had time to sign, “sick,” before I ran out on deck and leaned over my spot.

When I was done, I stayed out on the deck. I was warmed up and the cool, wet air felt amazing.

“There’s another fish!” John said, handing me a reel.

I reeled in two more to total my six and then Lori brought in the last one. We’d hit the limit. By 1:30, we were headed back to the dock at Huron.

On the way in, Eric let me drive the boat a while.

We docked and I signed to Lori and Greg what John said about how to get to the fish cleaner and how to store the fish later. When we climbed off the boat, they smiled and thanked me gratefully. We said goodbyes and we watched them happily make their way down the dock.

The first mate pulled me aside.

“I believe things happen for a reason,” he said. “And the fact that you ended up on the boat today couldn’t have been an accident.”

Eric said he and John would take my fish to the cleaner and meet up with me later at a restaurant in Marblehead that would cook them.

“OK, I’ll see you later,” I grinned. I bid farewell to The Pirate Clipper and walked down the dock.

It was 2 p.m., I’d survived the day, and I was absolutely starving. I laughed. I felt amazing.

22. Road Trip to the Great Lakes

Katie Wright — Mon, 29 Oct 2018 16:40:42 GMT

I’d been sitting on my couch when the idea of a road trip to the Great Lakes came to mind. In the last few days of October, with several adventures left to go and not a lot of money to spend on them, I decided I needed to find a place with a lot of bang for my buck.

And, although I’ve traveled to dance events and competitions in other states, I’ve never taken a road trip on my own without at least knowing someone on the other side.

I started by booking a $50 hotel in Port Clinton for Monday night. I figured I would go during the week when it was cheap, and plan my activities around it.

Then, it dawned on me: A fishing charter. I could not go to the great lakes, especially to Port Clinton, the Walleye Capital of the World, without getting on a boat for a fishing trip.

I looked back at my list of planned adventures. Fishing Trip had not yet been crossed off.

I did a quick google search and dozens of charters popped up, with names like Fish On Erie Charter. I called the first one. They were closed for the season. The next one. They were done for the year, too.

When the third one answered, I was ready to pitch. I explained to him why I needed to get on a boat and fish, and he finally said, “OK. I’ll give you a name. It’s a long shot but if anyone can help you, it’s him.”

I thanked him and hung up, and two seconds later he texted me a screenshot of a contact: Eric at the Pirate Clipper.

OK. Eric was my guy.

Eric answered the phone cheerfully and I started right off explaining why I wanted to come to Lake Erie and fish and write about it.

“Oh man, I feel bad, but I don’t think I can help you,” he said. “By Monday we’re about done.”

Then he stopped.

“OK, maybe there’s something I can do.”

I was sipping coffee and talking with my Mom at 5 p.m. on Saturday when Eric texted: “Any chance you can be here at 8 a.m.?”

“That’s my boat captain,” I told Mom. “I need to hit the road tonight!”

Miraculously, I found a $50 per night Motel 6 near Huron, where Eric said he’d be docked.

He texted me the address and told me to get my fishing license and bring water and snacks. He said he had decided to take a group out tomorrow, and that three other people had signed up at the last minute, including two hearing-impaired people.

“I know sign language,” I’d texted. “I can help.”

“Are you serious?” he said. “That’s perfect.”

It was dark by the time I left Wal-Mart with a backpack, my fishing license, and water bottles and snacks.

I dashed into my apartment. It usually takes me way too long to pack, so I decided to challenge myself to pack light and fast. I ran around throwing stuff into the backpack and a suitcase, and a half-hour later, at 7:30 p.m., I was pulling out.

I have no idea if the trip from Wilmington to Huron is a picturesque one, but for me it consisted of rain, darkness and an awesome Enrique Iglesias playlist that lasted the entire three-and-a-half-hour drive with almost no repeats.

I was pleasantly surprised to pull into a bright, attractive Motel 6 almost within walking distance of the lake.

This is too good to be true! I naively thought as I walked in and eyed the indoor pool and hot tub.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re at the wrong hotel,” the clerk said, confirming my suspicions.

“Head ten minutes back the way you came, into farm country,” she smiled. “The Motel 6 is right next to the big campground on the left.”

It was almost midnight when I sadly pulled my suitcase out of the bright lobby and loaded into the car. Enrique Iglesias and I sang a pitiful song as I headed back into the rain.

The Motel 6 I had booked was the opposite of the one in Huron. It was dim, dingy and next to a campground that looked dilapidated in the darkness. My front left tire was parked in a puddle of vomit, an unknown foreshadowing of the day ahead. Two hooded men smoking out front eyed me as I walked in the double doors.

I got to my room. It was sparse but it would do. After all, I reminded myself, I was only there for the next few hours.

I laid out my clothes for the morning – two pairs of pants, a fleece jacket and a heavy winter coat – and climbed into bed, setting my alarm for 6:45 a.m.

Every few minutes a train blew past the hotel and shook everything in the room, so it was hard to sleep. But I told myself that being on that boat at 8 a.m. was all that mattered, and it would be here before I knew it.

21. Archery for a cause with Heart of the Outdoors

Katie Wright — Fri, 26 Oct 2018 19:27:13 GMT

“OK get that elbow up. Pull back!”

I was standing at the ODNR public crossbow range in Xenia, aiming an arrow at the center of a target. I closed my left eye, pulled the string across the lower part of my face and then let it fly. To my utter shock, it was a bull’s eye.

“Nice shot!”

In the fourteen years since Chris Downing and I graduated high school together, I’ve only kept track of him through Facebook, where I saw photos of coyote and deer hunts as well as his wife and two-year-old son.

Always the outdoorsman, Chris had brought venison to my graduation party and seemed to spend most of his time the woods.

Last week, Chris asked to meet me and catch up on a ministry he’s now involved with, Heart of the Outdoors. The outreach brings children of all ages to the outdoors and introduces them not only to nature adventures, but provides mentorship and spiritual guidance.

“This generation is facing so much,” Chris said. “The biggest difference between kids and kids who become statistics is one caring adult in their life. And that’s what this is about.”

This year, Chris was hired as director of HisPins, a Christian archery outreach run by Heart of the Outdoors that provides free archery lessons and Christian mentorship to kids. The lessons are taught by certified instructors and all the equipment is provided free of charge at schools and churches.

Chris agreed to give me an archery lesson and update me on what he’s doing.

“This is how I start with the kids,” he said, attaching a string to a youth bow that looked just my size.

He had me stand with my feet shoulder length apart, with my body facing the right and my head looking straight ahead at the target. Then he showed me how to pull my right hand across the side of my face and let go in a fluid motion. After we practiced, he handed me the bow and an arrow.

I pulled back and let it go. It hit the target with a satisfying thud.

“Nice!” Chris said.

He explained that when he was in middle school, his youth pastor had taken the time to play with basketball with him several mornings a week. He said that had impacted him greatly and helped spur him toward the ministry. When he found out about Heart of the Outdoors, a youth ministry that teaches kids outdoor skills, it was a perfect fit.

We talked about statistics on bullying, pornography, depression and other issues that school-age kids are facing.

“This generation is facing so much,” Chris said. “The biggest difference between kids and kids who become statistics is one caring adult in their life. And that’s what this is about.”

After another round of arrows, I thanked him for the lesson. I’m always excited to learn a new skill, but it was also inspiring to hear the work that Chris was doing with kids. Later, I thought about how one little shift early in a child’s life can change their whole trajectory.

It’s funny how bows and arrows work the same way.

Chris’s ministry is 100 percent funded by donations. If you would like to support him, click the link below.

https://heartoftheoutdoors.z2systems.com/np/clients/heartoftheoutdoors/donation.jsp?campaign=7&&test=true&fbclid=IwAR1g5GSjg718qpes2aXCoI53eCXBMdjgngA5oXCU-tsRytdAppZHxrEIzo8

20. Ziplining: missing the rope, waiting for help and facing the gorge

Katie Wright — Thu, 25 Oct 2018 02:31:38 GMT

Oh Heavens. No.

I had neared the landing of a seemingly endless zipline across the treetops of the Little Miami River Gorge. The trees were glowing brilliantly against a deep blue sky, but I was having a hard time enjoying the view. My heart was pounding and all I could think about was getting to the end.

But just as I neared the last fifteen feet, my line slowed. I looked up and made eye contact with my guide, George. I could tell by his face that I wasn’t going to make it to the landing.

“Catch this!” George yelled, throwing out a rescue rope that caught on the top of the line, out of my reach.

I watched the rope fall. Then, with a sinking feeling, I felt myself sliding helplessly back toward the center of the 300-foot line.

Aside from falling to my death, this was worst case scenario.

“Hang tight!” George called. “I’m coming out to get you!”

As I drifted further to the middle of the line, I had to chuckle.

The fear of heights I’d developed in the last few years seemed to have manifested itself in the gorge. On and off, I’d even taken back roads to avoid driving the I-71 bridge over the gorge, repelled by the deep unease I felt at the height and open space.

And now here I was, helplessly suspended above it – my perfect opportunity to confront and come to terms with my fear of the gorge.

In all directions, I was surrounded by sunlit autumn views. Mercifully, I came to a rest over an area of high ground next to a drop off.

As I breathed and waited for George to make his way out to me, I said to myself, “See? Nothing bad is happening.”

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever read about panic and fear is to stay in the pool. When we’re in a state of extreme fear or panic, our reflex is to escape the situation. But when you stay in it, even for just an extra five seconds beyond what you think you can handle, you conquer fear head-on.

Well, I was forced to sit above the gorge. And – wonder of wonders! – it worked.

By the time George arrived, with a well-meaning apology as he awkwardly wrapped his legs around me and pulled me to the landing, I was laughing.

The scary thing had happened, and I’d survived it. I felt like I could take whatever the gorge threw at me next.

I was fortunate in that, while I had signed up to zipline by myself at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning, I had ended up joining a tour of four women celebrating a birthday. The five of us had gotten along from the moment we climbed to the top of a winding staircase to the tree canopy.

I was glad they were there when I had a brief freeze just before climbing to the highest landing. I thought for a moment that I couldn’t do it. They all encouraged me and cheered me on when I moved forward.

On the final line, I was the last of the group to go. The second guide, Alec, stood with me on the platform as we looked out over the expanse of the gorge.

“I’ve seen grown men reduced to tears on this platform,” Alec said. “I hate it when people turn back. They miss out.”

Alec hooked me on to the line and I took off, floating through the tree tops. The sun was glinting on the river far below and shimmering across the yellowing trees in the valley.

I was glad I hadn’t missed out.

19. Serving at Your Father’s Kitchen: cornbread, beans, and getting swamped with love

Katie Wright — Wed, 24 Oct 2018 03:45:50 GMT

So often, the things that lie just outside our comfort zones are the things that bring us the most joy and fulfillment.

I am not a shy person, but that doesn’t mean it necessarily feels comfortable to knock on the door at a soup kitchen and ask, “Do you guys need any help?”

But as always, I was glad I did, especially when I was greeted with a warm and welcoming, “Of course we do!”

If ever there was a place where one could set foot and immediately be swamped with love, it’s Your Father’s Kitchen on Sugartree Street in Wilmington. Its modest appearance belies its ever-increasing impact as it feeds, clothes, shelters, counsels and ministers to people in need in the community. But perhaps most impactful is the feeling of hope and warmth that surrounds you when you come in the door.

“A lot of people don’t realize everything we do here.”

Lee, the director, had found me spreading butter across a pan of cornbread fresh out of the oven. He explained that along with serving a free dinner five nights a week, Your Father’s Kitchen is also a free food pantry and a place for people to come in need of anything.

Lee points to the calendar tracking the number of meals served. Anywhere from 40 to 130 people are served nightly.

“We help people with addiction, we help them find jobs, we try to connect them with what they need,” Lee told me.

The ministry’s adjacent coffee shop, Joe’s Java, acts as a stopgap for people who have nowhere to go.

“It gets people out of the elements. They can eat dinner here, then go to the coffee shop and be warm and have a hot drink until the homeless shelter across the street opens,” Lee explained.

I was working in the industrial-size kitchen with three volunteers who regularly thanked me for helping out. Multiple dinners a month are sponsored by local churches and businesses. The sausage, potatoes and beans tonight were provided by GreenCore.

While Lee and I talked, the doorbell rang.

“Oh, that’s dessert!” Lee said.

An elderly man was at the door with six cartons of chocolate milk and two gallons of ice cream. We helped him haul it in as another volunteer opened boxes of Little Debbie cosmic brownies for the dessert tray.

The delicious aroma of green beans and cornbread wafted through the kitchen as all of us gathered to hold hands and pray before the doors opened. As soon as we’d prayed, we readied our stations and the doors opened.

I teamed up with the little girl next to me to place slice after slice of cornbread on the plates as they whooshed by. The volunteers who served came by in cycles, ensuring that everyone in the dining area had a full plate of dinner and then dessert.

Dinnertime flew by. I stayed to help fill a few requests for to-go orders for people bringing food home for their children or parents. Four volunteers were already in the dish pit washing the dishes. In no time, everything was done.

There wasn’t anything else left to do, but oddly I didn’t feel like leaving.

“I’m trying to do things outside of my comfort zone,” I’d told Lee when explaining my October challenge.

“Well I hope this gets into your comfort zone,” he’d said.

It has, I thought, as the door swung open and I stepped out into the evening air.

18. Conquering the corn maze tower (with little adventurers)

Katie Wright — Mon, 22 Oct 2018 17:16:10 GMT

“Are we allowed to climb that?”

My sister Megan and I looked at each other. We were standing in the middle of a cornfield (something Megan and I have done together since we were 9 and 10 years old), looking up at a towering metal overlook.

It was a beautiful fall day, sunny but cold, and the overlook stood against the blue sky like a challenge.

I had called Megan just two hours ago, hoping that at the last minute she and my three nieces and nephew might be up for an adventure. Megan, a pediatric nurse practitioner who worked at a hospital in Zimbabwe and met her husband in rural Alaska, is not one to turn down adventure.

“Yes, we’re in!” Megan had said right away, and in an hour I was at their house.

We’d decided to go to VanDemark Farm in Sidney, Ohio, a sprawling attraction that boasted not only hay rides and a petting zoo, but ziplines and a giant swing. Unfortunately, when we arrived, we found out that the farm had suffered wind damage overnight and some of their attractions were down. We did find signs of wind damage, but we were undeterred.

We started with the petting zoo, which included llamas and pot-bellied pigs, although everyone agreed that the barn cat (an accidental attraction) was their favorite. These four are definitely Megan’s kids.

Then we ventured to the corn maze. Matthew, the oldest at six, would typically have been the one to charge through the maze. But Lucy, one of the four-year-old twins, took off first and led us for a while. Megan told me that Lucy has an innate sense of direction. And sure enough, she got us to the overlook.

About 25 to 30 feet off the ground, the structure seemed clearly designed for employees to climb and watch the corn maze.

Matthew immediately started to climb it.

“That’s weird,” I said. “It doesn’t seem like just everyone should be able to climb it.”

“But there are no signs saying we can’t,” Megan said.

So we all started up. By the time the twins got about 15 feet up the steep stairs, they started getting nervous. Megan and I took turns holding their hands.

I helped Matthew up the last step and felt his little legs shaking.

“I need to get down right now,” he said.

I had to admit having that feeling for a split second, as well.

“It’s OK Matthew,” Megan said, helping two-year-old Izzy up the last step. “Look! We made it!”

We were standing on solid metal mesh and we had a 360-degree view of the cornfield, the farm and the interstate beyond.

As soon as we were back on the ground, I gestured over to a wad of yellow caution tape that had blown into the stalks of corn. “I think that was supposed to be around the tower,” I said.

The kids were all nervous, but they were excited too. We marveled at the view. It was amazing to see that even though the kids were scared, they mustered proud grins.

Then we carefully made our way back down.

As soon as we were back on the ground, I gestured over to a wad of yellow caution tape that had blown into the stalks of corn.

“I think that was supposed to be around the tower,” I said.

Megan and I both laughed and followed Lucy back into the corn. Later, after playing on a haystack, taking a hayride and playing a few rounds of mini golf, we hit the road while the sun set. It had been an adventurous day, for sure.

17. Taking the great Ohio by riverboat

Katie Wright — Sun, 21 Oct 2018 15:57:22 GMT

I love boats.

And as I explained to Chris, looking down from the top of Mount Adams to the BB Riverboat below, if I see a boat, I always have the urge to get on it.

So I bought us tickets online, and we hiked down Mount Adams and made our way to the BB Riverboat dock down at Newport on the Levee.

The sky had clouded over and the wind had seriously picked up by the time we boarded. When the boat started moving, we made our way to the top to look out over the river.

The word “Ohio” itself is Senecan for “Good River.” The river, which was naturally shallow, has been deepened artificially over time by dams. It averages about 15 to 20 feet deep in Cincinnati, but hits its deepest point of 167 feet in Louisville. Thomas Jefferson once called it “the most beautiful river on earth.”

I was very excited to have seen the river from Mount Adams, and Mount Adams from the river, in the same day.

Chris and I took the elevator the third level, where employees were bustling around preparing for a wedding. Then we braved the wind to head up to the fourth deck, where the captain was in the cockpit.

The captain explained how he steers the boat and uses radars to watch for rocks and shallow areas. The whole time we were in the cockpit, he was on the radio with a nearing tug boat, ensuring we wouldn’t meet a massive barge under the bridge.

“I told him we’d meet him on our starboard side before the bridge,” he explained. We looked out the windshield toward the water. It was growing choppier in the wind by the minute.

After a while, when the boat neared its dock, the captain thanked us.

“I’ve got to concentrate now,” he said, and we politely excused ourselves.

A minute later, he came over the loudspeaker.

“It’s a bit windy and the docking might be a little rough,” he said. “You might want to hold onto something. Fair warning.”

There was indeed a little bump when we docked. But we had safely made it to shore. And I had decided that being a riverboat captain is a potential career option, if it comes to that. Adventure number 17 was complete.

16. Climbing Mt. Adams

Katie Wright — Sun, 21 Oct 2018 15:12:35 GMT

The sun was shining warmly when Chris and I pulled into a parking spot at the base of Mt. Adams.

The neighborhood is a historic, tightly designed community on a steep mountain overlooking the Ohio river. Named for President John Adams, the hilltop boasts a stunning Catholic cathedral with sweeping views of the river, the city, and the Kentucky side.

Chris and I started at the base, looking up a steep sidewalk.

“It’s about a mile and a half, pretty much straight up,” Chris said. “We’ll pace ourselves.”

I could already tell I wouldn’t make the whole run. But, I took off jogging anyway and figured I would go for as long as I could.

About seven minutes in, my legs turned to jelly. I run fairly frequently, but the incline killed me.

“It’s all good,” Chris said. “We’ll walk it from here.”

We continued up the winding hill, passing historic old homes and brick restaurants and bars.

It felt good to walk and stretch my legs. And the views were beautiful.

When we got to the top, we stopped at the cathedral and looked out over the river.

Chris explained that the Mt. Adams stairs have special significance because they have an annual prayer event there.

“Want to do the stairs one time?” he said.

“If we go down, do we have to come back up?” I hesitated.

“Yes, but just once,” he said.

We went down and up the stairs. Then we walked over to another overlook, where, thank goodness, there was a bench to fall into.

Through the branches and under the blue sky, I looked down and saw a riverboat on the sparkling water below.

I looked at the riverboat and decided exactly what my next adventure would be.

15. Driving a 6-speed Porsche downtown

Katie Wright — Sun, 21 Oct 2018 14:36:07 GMT

It was 10 o’clock in the morning when I pulled up to my friend Chris’s house to tackle the adventures of the day. Along with rock climbing and competition rifle shooting, Chris is also a woodworker who literally builds boats in his spare time. He’s a good person to know when you’re tackling adventures.

I was yawning and still finishing my morning coffee when I got to the house, expecting to spend the next hour or so learning how to make cool things out of wood.

Chris greeted me at the door in running clothes.

“I thought we could start with our run up Mount Adams,” he cheerfully said.

“Oh. We’re doing that?”

I started to blurt out incredibly lame excuses like, “I haven’t eaten breakfast,” and “I don’t really exercise in the morning,” and, “I’m not sure I brought the right clothes.”

Chris got me a protein bar from the kitchen and reassured me we would start slow. Clearly, he was not going to be talked down so easily.

Plus, he handed me the keys to his Porsche.

“Want to drive us?” he said.

“OK,” I replied. “Let’s do this.”

Each gear shift seemed to bring a whoosh of power. The 718 Model not only has six speeds but a turbo, and when we were on the interstate, I hit 85 mph in about three seconds.

Initially when Chris had suggested driving a manual transmission sports car on a short road trip as an adventure, I had told him I wasn’t sure it counted. I already drive a 5-speed, and as my six speeding tickets attest, I guess I drive it like a racecar.

But when he’d opened the garage door and showed me the specimen, I’d changed my mind.

Chris pushed the button for sport mode and said, “Try to keep it under 120, OK?” And we were off.

Early on at a traffic light, I let up on the clutch too soon and killed the engine. I laughed because it brought back memories of my Dad teaching me to drive my little 5-speed Sentra in 2012. To my great relief, we were stalled in the intersection for a mere second before the engine restarted on its own and we were going again. (My Sentra never did that. I had to stomp the clutch and turn the key while a chorus of honks flew at me from every side.)

Each gear shift seemed to bring a whoosh of power. The 718 Model not only has six speeds but a turbo, and when we were on the interstate, I hit 85 mph in about three seconds.

When we hit traffic, we re-routed and took 71 downtown. I’d come close to side-swiping about three cars because I wasn’t used to the blind spot, but otherwise I was having a blast.

“You’re handling it like a pro,” Chris said. “This car is you.”

I had to admit that Chris was handling it like a pro. I killed the engine a few more times, had several near-misses and, in the parking garage, whipped into a space so small that alarms were going off on every side.

I did notice Chris was subtly reaching for a handle on the ceiling of the passenger side that unfortunately didn’t exist. But otherwise he didn’t make a sound.

“You’re amazingly calm,” I laughed.

“It’s just a car,” he said.

That’s true. But it was an experience, too.

A personal post: My friend Allen, Anxiety, and an Adventurous Life

Katie Wright — Fri, 19 Oct 2018 19:22:56 GMT

I met Allen Johnson on the dance floor at the American-Czechoslovakian Club on Valley Street in East Dayton. He put out his hand with a grin as the accordion player belted out yet another Polka. Later, we’d struck up conversation and he told me about his latest book.

Allen has written 27 books – one for each of the major worldwide adventures he’s tackled in his lifetime. As the inside jacket of his latest book outlines, Allen has chased polar bears across the Canadian Arctic, ridden camels across the Australian Outback, swam with sharks in Mexico, bicycled across Sweden (yes, I said across), and jogged the Great Wall of China, among dozens of other adventures.

Allen is 83 years old. I saw him last week during a dance lesson and his grin once again lit up the room. He exudes youthfulness, an eagerness to learn, and a readiness to tackle new experiences. Even taking on a difficult step in hustle, he glowed with determination.

Allen is a true adventurer. But what makes him an adventurer, I realized as I contemplated later, is not necessarily his amazing exploits. It is his attitude, his willingness to embrace the unknown, his curiosity and optimism that something good and exciting lies just beyond the next bend.

I see that same spirit in my six-year-old nephew Matthew – a deep well of excitement and curiosity about life, coupled with a hell-or-high-water courage that is overwhelmingly contagious.

But Allen and Matthew aren’t the only people with an adventurous spirit. I believe we all have one, deep inside. It’s that little voice that says, “Ooh, let’s try this and see what happens.” It’s the quiet, curious, courageous voice that can be drowned out so easily by fear.

I know a little something about being drowned out by fear.

Twelve years ago on a cold February day, I had my first panic attack on the 11^th floor of the Riffe Building in downtown Columbus. It would be the first of hundreds.

Most people who know me today would never guess this, and I don’t talk about it very often. But at 19 years old, I came close to spending the rest of my life as a house-bound agoraphobic. I spent nearly a year afraid of driving, afraid of being out in public, afraid of going anywhere. After working a full-time political job and commuting to Columbus every day, I found myself frozen, and crying, just trying to go to the store.

The more I avoided doing things, the harder and harder they became. I watched helplessly as my life shrunk before my eyes, as I became a shell of who I was. And eventually, the fear settled into my first major depression.

I have my Dad to thank, more than anyone, for helping me push back against the fear. He got me to leave the house when I felt like I couldn’t, even driving me to a job interview at the Times-Gazette newspaper, where I was hired on the spot, officially ending my house-bound days.

Adventure is about attitude. It’s about pushing the fear back by a couple feet, kicking out the boundaries of your own life, taking more ground today than you had yesterday. It’s about embracing life with hope and optimism.

I started driving again. I got up every day, got dressed, and went to work. Early on, sometimes I cried, it was so hard. The fear pushed me, taunted me, tricked me. I spent whole days feeling like a clammy, shaking, pale mess. But I pushed back.

That was 12 years ago. I look back with immense gratitude that I did not shut out life the way I could have back then. But it hasn’t always been easy. The anxiety and panic attacks haven’t entirely stopped. I’ve just learned how to tackle life anyway.

What matters, I remind myself and smile, is that in the battlefield with fear I’m always taking ground.

There is much that I could write about fear, how it lies, how it manipulates, how it paralyzes. But we’ve all dealt with fear. We know exactly how it works. In a way, all of us live on that battlefield; all of us let fear dictate our choices sometimes.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about adventure, and about what it means to live adventurously. And I’ve realized that adventure isn’t about what you do, but rather who you are. It’s about whether you embrace the unknown, whether you look ahead with optimism, whether you push back when fear pushes you.

In the last 19 days, I’ve climbed 45-foot rocks, swam in waterfalls, hiked after dark, slept outside and spent a day building a house, among other adventures.

I haven’t swam with sharks in Mexico or jogged the Great Wall of China like Allen has, but that’s not really what adventure is truly about.

When Allen and I talked the other day, he said, “You don’t have to travel the world to have experiences. Start here.”

That’s what my October challenge, 31 Adventures, is all about. It’s just embracing the spirit of adventure in small but new ways.

Adventure is about attitude. It’s about pushing the fear back by a couple feet, kicking out the boundaries of your own life, taking more ground today than you had yesterday. It’s about embracing life with hope and optimism.

And when you take on that attitude, when you start with small adventures, you find your life expanding around you. And an expansive life, I’m sure Allen would agree, is the biggest adventure of all.

14. Shooting a precision rifle: MOA at 200 yards

Katie Wright — Thu, 18 Oct 2018 02:54:31 GMT

Oh wow, that’s loud.

A moment ago, all had been silent. Now a thundering “boom!” had penetrated the ear plugs and ear muffs I was wearing, startling me despite myself. I could feel it in my chest.

My thoughts seemed loud now, too, in my head.

Oh. Now I’m going to shoot it.

My friend Chris (of rock climbing fame) had invited me out to the range to shoot his competition precision rifle. On the way there, he had explained how competitions work and how the gun and scope are designed for precision at long distances.

I confessed that while I’ve shot guns before, I’m always apprehensive about the kickback and the sound. I tend to anticipate the loud noise, tensing up right at the last second, almost as though I’m waiting to be shot instead of to shoot something.

“This one doesn’t have much kickback at all,” Chris explained. “It does make a little noise, though.”

When we arrived at the range, I immediately knew what he meant. Despite doubling up on the ear protection, the shots from nearby riflemen were thunderous.

As Chris pulled out the rifle and began setting it up, I had to laugh at myself. I’m scared of loud noises. And absolutely nothing about a loud noise is going to hurt me.

Chris had made two targets: one for one hundred yards, and one for two hundred. When the range manager blared a horn and declared a ceasefire, I watched Chris walk out and hang them up.

I breathed in, breathed out, and gently squeezed the trigger. I could feel the reverberation in my nose.

He came back to where he had set the rifle on the table, with the back of it on a bean bag. He showed me the scope, how to load the clip, where the safety is and how to use the bolt action to feed the round. He explained that when you squeeze the bean bag underneath, it gently props the rifle up until it’s aiming at just the right spot.

Then he stood up.

“It’s all you,” he said.

I sat down and looked squarely through the scope until there was no tunnel vision. I squeezed the bean bag, and sure enough, the scope moved up and found the target. I breathed in, breathed out, and gently squeezed the trigger.

I could feel the reverberation in my nose.

But I looked back through the scope, and I’d hit squarely on the target.

I gave it another try and hit it again. The more I pulled the trigger, the more comfortable I became with the noise and the less I felt myself inwardly cringing waiting for it. And the moment I became more confident, it started to be fun.

“You’re not anticipating at all,” Chris said. “Good job.”

100 yards

200 yards

Chris had made a total of five goals for me: A two-inch square, a one-inch square, and a “money shot” half-inch circle at 100 yards. At 200 yards, I had a four-inch square and a one-inch circle.

When it came to the money shot at 100 yards, I missed it by half an inch.

“Darn,” Chris said. “I really wanted to give you that dollar.”

Then we moved to 200 yards. It was amazing how still and solid the scope was at that distance. I fired away, hitting four shots close together around the four-inch square. My three shots at the inch circle sprinkled above it.

At the next ceasefire, we went out to collect the targets. Chris explained that because my shots were within one inch at 100 yards and two inches at 200 yards, I’d shot one MOA, or Minute of Angle.

“That’s good shooting,” he said.

I laughed. I was just happy to have conquered my fear of the noise.

13. Giveaway Purge

Katie Wright — Thu, 18 Oct 2018 01:17:28 GMT

Today did me so much good.

As I sipped my coffee, I had looked around my apartment and plotted the adventure of the day: The Giveaway Purge. Unlike the movie “The Purge,” this event does not include a night of unbridled lawlessness, although I do have a game plan for that kind of purge, too. But this purge is different.

The rules are easy:

Find a local shelter or organization in need of donations and contact them before you start
Set a timer
Run around your house and pull anything you haven’t used or worn in the last 6-8 months
Wash and sanitize it
Give it all away!

The Giveaway Purge is all about letting go of old things and making space for new ones, which is the defining characteristic of the fall season. It’s also about adventure, about traveling light, about opening up to the next thing and living generously. It’s about cleaning up your house and clearing some of the old clutter from your soul.

“We can all have as big a heart as we want to have,” writes Ann Voskamp, and she is right. The Giveaway Purge is about catching the spirit of adventure, which at its heart is open and spacious and ready for the next thing.

I learned that while I never seem to have staples like soap or toilet paper in the house, I regularly have seven open bottles of hair-volumizing gels and creams. No one needs that many volumizing creams in their life.

I started my purge day by contacting my awesome friend Allison, who runs a local recovery home for women. The Nest is a former bed and breakfast that now serves as a safe (and beautiful!) place for women on their journey to sobriety.

Not only did Allison say they could use my stuff, but she said they could use it for their resource room, which is a little free store for residents of The Nest to “shop” for things they need.

That really inspired me. The image of someone starting over in life made me think, “She could use this!” when I sorted through my things. Instead of dumping five impersonal trash bags at Goodwill, I pictured women shopping for needed clothes and accessories at a free store.

I immediately started doing laundry. As the washer and dryer whirred, I went from room to room, finding item after item to add to the growing pile.

I learned that while I never seem to have staples like soap or toilet paper in the house, I regularly have seven open bottles of hair-volumizing gels and creams. If they were more than 75 percent full, I closed them up, wiped them down with a Clorox wipe, and put them in the pile. No one needs that many volumizing creams in their life.

I tackled my jewelry next. If it was bent or tarnished, I threw it away. If I hadn’t worn it recently, I untangled and sanitized it. I attached the earrings and necklaces to pieces of thank-you notes to make them look more shop-worthy. By the time I got done, pieces of jewelry that I’ve ignored since 2012 looked appealing. I smiled.

I wiped down old purses, shoes, a hair straightener and a round brush that I’ve never gotten the hang of using. (How do you hold a hair dryer and a round brush at the same time? Asking for a friend.) I hauled a Keurig out of the closet that I won at a 5K a year ago and haven’t touched.

By the time the laundry was done, I looked at the pile on my living room floor and marveled. I hadn’t expected that I would be able to give away this much. I had no idea that I was living around all these things I never used.

I felt happy and excited as I polished, folded and packed everything up. I was happy to be decluttering my space, but I also felt a little like I was wrapping presents on Christmas Eve.

Allison was thrilled when I dropped everything off and let her know it was all washed and sanitized. I left The Nest, feeling lighter in every sense of the word.

When I came back in my front door, the living room looked bright and clean and empty. Ready for the next thing, just the way I like it.

12. Hiking after dark at Fort Hill

Katie Wright — Mon, 15 Oct 2018 16:45:22 GMT

The sky was already deepening into gloom when I jumped in my car and headed south toward Highland County. I had been in a bit of a Sunday afternoon gloom myself, and had finally decided, at 4 p.m., that I just needed a really long walk through the woods.

According to the website, Fort Hill closes at dusk and its 1300 acres of woods and 11 miles of hiking trails are for “serious hikers only.” I had never been hiking there, so I put the address in my GPS and drove south. Rain pelted my windshield as I picked up my phone and called my friend Katie.

“I realize this is a weird day to go hiking,” I laughed, “But do you want to come to Fort Hill with me?”

This is why I love Katie. Within 15 minutes, she was in my car in a ball cap and hiking boots, with a backpack full of water bottles and granola bars, saying, “This should be interesting.”

The rain had turned to a light mist when we pulled in and parked by the trails. Fort Hill has multiple hiking paths, all centered around a huge gorge surrounded by foothills. Since it was 5 p.m. when we arrived, we picked a shorter trail that was just over two miles. The first leg of it was entirely uphill.

When we reached the top, we climbed a fallen tree and looked down through the just-turning leaves toward the gorge. We left the path to wander downhill for a better view and realized we were on another path.

“This must be the gorge trail,” Katie said.

“Isn’t that the long one?” I asked.

“Yes. But I think it’s going to be more interesting,” Katie replied.

So we took off on the gorge trail, which did in fact turn out to be more interesting.

Before long, we neared the bottom of the gorge and could see a river through the leaves. We left the path and headed toward the water, which was surrounded by huge rock shears and cliff sides. We crossed the river at a shallow point and explored the other side. By this time, we had long been the only two people in the woods.

We had walked a while before we crossed the water again and Katie slipped on a rock and fell in. Soaked but laughing, she led the way back to the path and we were going uphill again.

It was remarkable how quickly the path would bring us uphill. We would be in the bottom of the gorge one minute and then five minutes later, after a steep climb, we would see the river fifty feet below from a treacherous drop-off. The trails were muddy and slippery in the rain, and we both came close to wiping out more times than we could count.

“The lawyer in me feels that maybe some of these deadly drop-offs should be marked by signs,” Katie observed. “But what do I know?”

Meanwhile, I had taken to exclaiming “Oopsie daisy!” every time one of us slipped, which only made it worse.

An hour and a half later, we had gone uphill and downhill so many times we’d lost count. We had wandered off the trail a few times to see plummeting overlooks and stunning rock cliffs. And we hadn’t really taken any breaks.

Almost suddenly, darkness had crept over the woods.

“Is it just me, or is getting dark really fast?” Katie asked.

She was right. It had seemed a few minutes ago that it was just dusk. Now, it was getting hard to see. And the trail was taking us away from the river again and up the hill and deeper into the woods.

Within minutes, it was too dark to see. We couldn’t tell where the trail was and my phone was at 6 percent battery power, so Katie pulled out hers to use as a flashlight. The trail just kept pulling us deeper into darkness.

“Oopsie daisy!” I declared as Katie’s foot slipped ahead of me.

“This is how all the horror movies start, you know,” she helpfully observed.

We traipsed onward. At times it felt like we were nearing the edge of the woods. It would seem like we could see light through the trees. When we were down by the river, it felt lighter, but then the trail would pull us back up the hill and it would be pitch black again.

Finally, we came upon a trail sign and cheered. But the sign was problematically confusing. Katie held her phone up to it to read it. Three different trails merged at the sign, including the longest one. The trail that we were on had ended and we needed to pick between two options. One seemed to lead back to our starting point, but it moved away from the river, which felt counterintuitive. The other seemed to move along the river, but according to the sign, went in the opposite direction from where we’d started.

We agreed to follow the one heading away from the river. We had walked it for a while when I suddenly became uneasy. It was raining again, and the path was unbelievably steep and slick in the darkness. It was leading us high up the hill again, into total darkness.

“I don’t think this is right,” I said.

“I’m starting to wonder myself,” Katie replied, glancing at her phone. “It’s 7:22. Let’s walk this trail until 7:30 and if we aren’t where we should be, we’ll turn around.”

I’ve always appreciated Katie’s decisiveness. We pressed on.

“Oopsie daisy!” I declared as Katie’s foot slipped ahead of me.“This is how all the horror movies start, you know,” she helpfully observed.

My phone was dying, but I thought I might try calling my brother just in case. I hadn’t told anyone I would be out here. I found out later that Katie hadn’t told anyone either.

My phone confirmed what we’d thought: neither of us had service.

Eight minutes later, we turned around and headed back down the slippery path. It seemed to take forever to get back to the sign. By this time, we were both quiet and focused.

It was amazing to me that my first temptation at that moment was to leave the trail. I knew logically that if we stayed on a trail, even if we were there all night, we would eventually find our way back. But intuitively I wanted to leave the trail and follow the river.

I might have done so, and dragged Katie with me, had we not followed the final path downhill. A few short minutes later, Katie said, “That’s the car.” I hit my unlock button and saw my headlights through the trees.

We both burst out laughing with relief.

Soaked and muddy from head to toe, we climbed in the car and drove away through the darkness and rain.

“I’m really glad you came,” I laughed. “I would have been wandering alone all this time.”

“You would have gone off the trail,” Katie said, and she was right.

Later, jumping into a hot shower at Katie’s house, I realized how much better I felt and smiled. You can’t go wrong with a long walk in the woods. And a little adventure thrown in, too.

11. Figure skating lesson

Katie Wright — Sun, 14 Oct 2018 17:33:22 GMT

The Kettering Rec Center is not an unfamiliar place. During my last year of law school, I used to get up early a few days a week and ice skate before class. Several competitive figure skaters used to practice there, and they kindly gave me tips. One of the last times I went, I wiped out in a turn and landed squarely on my chin.

I still love to rollerblade and ice skate, but I’ve never formally taken a lesson. And when my rental skates first hit the ice on Saturday, I realized it was for the first time in more than four years.

Sara, the instructor, teaches ballroom dance and figure skating. I’ve met her at dance events and seen posts about her competitive figure skating students, and she kindly agreed to give me a lesson. The first thing she did was sit me down and tighten my laces. Then we went out on the ice.

My confidence level plummeted as soon as we hit the ice. I’d brought my own ice skates, but exchanged them for rentals because they badly needed sharpened. The rentals felt a little awkward and unsteady on the ice.

But Sara encouraged me. We started with the very basics: inside forward edge, inside backward edge, stopping, and forward crossovers. Sara helped me focus on things I never think about, like positioning my body for balance. Then we worked on a two-foot spin.

As always, it’s wonderful to make progress. I went in not being able to spin on ice skates, and I walked out with that skill.

The two-foot spin starts by putting your left toe pick in the ice, then sweeping your right around it in a half-circle. With that momentum, you then put your feet together and let your body spin. (It’s terrifying.)

Sara showed me, and when she did it, it looked effortless and elegant. I wobbled an attempt.

“Good job,” Sara said. “Try putting your arms out.”

It was counterintuitive to stand in one place and spin. It felt like I was going to fall. But the final time I tried, I made it into a spin. It felt light and simple.

“Great job!” Sara said.

After our lesson, she encouraged me to practice a while and then stay at the rink for some figure skating performances.

I was glad I did. After having spent the last half-hour trying to gain confidence and stability in a spin, it was amazing to see skaters go into full one-footed spins and jumps.

As always, it’s wonderful to make progress. I went in not being able to spin on ice skates, and I walked out with that skill.

I came out of the rink into the bright October day, and was ready to take on the next adventure.

10. Spending the Day with Habitat for Humanity

Katie Wright — Sat, 13 Oct 2018 00:57:15 GMT

“OK girl, you ever hung cement siding before?”

“No, actually,” I said.

Bill grinned as he handed me a yellow tape measure, bright pink protective glasses, a work apron and a screwdriver.

“Welp, that’ll change after today!”

It had been chilly and clouded when I arrived at the Habitat for Humanity worksite in Huber Heights at 9 a.m. It should have been 8:30, but I’d realized halfway there that I had forgotten my phone, which contained the worksite address, and had to turn around.

When I’d arrived back at my apartment to pick up my phone, I’d wondered if I should even go.

It’s so easy, isn’t it, to back out of things? To be too tired, or too down, or just fearful. We have the best intentions, but when it comes to actually moving on them, we face a wall of resistance.

But so much more life happens when we have the courage to show up. And I’ve found that when I push forward, when I commit and then follow through, it’s always worth it. That’s one of my biggest reasons for pursuing this challenge; to have the curiosity and the optimism to say, “Let’s see what I can get into today.”

I’d paused for a moment in my kitchen. Then I thought, “I signed up for this shift. I’m going,” grabbed my keys, and hit the road.

I arrived at the work site to find a standing structure in a pleasant neighborhood of newer homes. I walked around the house and found two people standing at a makeshift table with long slabs of siding.

Bill, who was about sixty, gray, and missing a few teeth, welcomed me and introduced me to Melinda, a middle aged woman smiling through her protective glasses. The three of us were it, he said, and we’d be siding a wall.

Bill set me up drilling holes in the heavy slabs of siding to prep them for him and Melinda to hang them on the wall. A country music station blared as I started drilling hole after hole.

But so much more life happens when we have the courage to show up. And I’ve found that when I push forward, when I commit and then follow through, it’s always worth it. That’s one of my biggest reasons for pursuing this challenge; to have the curiosity and the optimism to say, “Let’s see what I can get into today.”

“You’re going through those like candy, young lady!” Bill exclaimed after a while. “You’re getting another job.”

In between drilling holes, I would use a utility knife to slice waterproof material to slide underneath breaks in the siding.

I broke down my tasks into a seamless system. Drill holes, move the plank of siding, drill more holes, then start cutting. Time slipped by as I drilled, cut, moved and went back to drilling again. Siding crept up the wall before my very eyes.

Often, Bill would cut the slabs with a circular power saw. Apparently, cement dust is not good for your lungs, so he would yell, “Breathe!” and we would all take a big breath and hold it while dust flew into the air. After a while, someone found masks and we started wearing them.

I ran out of slabs to drill and told Bill we needed to move more.

“You’re making me work too hard,” he groused as we lugged five heavy slabs from the shed. “And you look like a little train robber in that mask.”

Lunchtime arrived before I knew it. I devoured an amazing sandwich from Firehouse Subs and looked forward to the afternoon.

The sun was shining brightly when we arrived back on site. Melinda asked me to switch with her and I climbed a ladder and began drilling the heavy slabs into the wall. We laughed when I struggled to get the hang of the new power drill, but before long I was back in a rhythm.

It’s amazing how quickly time flies by when you’re working outside on a beautiful day. When it was time to go, Bill and Melinda kindly thanked me for coming. The wall was almost complete. I looked at it with a smile and a sense of satisfaction. As usual, I was glad I’d followed through.

9. Rounding up calves on horseback

Katie Wright — Tue, 09 Oct 2018 21:00:26 GMT

“OK, chase him up here!”

The dust of the corral had stirred up and was softly glowing in the sunset. I found myself on a beautiful black gelding named Uno in the middle of the corral, reigns in hand, with my friend Kelly riding beside me. Kelly, my adventure buddy for the last few days, is a seasoned rider. She’d invited me to ride with her on the farm where she works in the evenings.

A red bull calf with nubs for horns had defied the herding dog and slipped out of the pen, followed by a few other rebels. Don, the owner of the sprawling farm, had been moving the calves onto a trailer and shouted over to us.

I eyed the calves and the furiously fast dog.

“Just ride alongside them,” Kelly encouraged me.

I set my heels down, gently tapped Uno’s flanks and said, “Let’s go!”

This wasn’t Uno’s first rodeo. He knew what he was doing before I even moved. We came up to the calves and rode alongside them as the dog herded them back into the pen.

I had arrived on Don’s farm for the evening with only the goal of getting onto a horse.

“I’ve ridden before,” I’d said in a reassuring tone.

“Well…” Kelly corrected. “She’s been led around before. I’m not sure that’s riding.”

“If you are on a horse’s back, you are riding it,” I laughed.

“So you want to get technical,” Don said.

“I’m a lawyer,” I smiled.

“That’s what worries me,” Don muttered.

Kelly had saddled up Uno and her horse, a beautiful light-colored mare nicknamed Jazzy. She had explained how to tighten the cinch and what each part of the saddle does. Then we’d led the horses outside into a beautiful, spacious corral.

I put my right foot in the stirrup and slung myself up into Uno’s saddle. Don told me how to steer the horse using the reigns, how to go forward, and how to stop. Then Kelly and I were off into the corral.

This wasn’t Uno’s first rodeo. He knew what he was doing before I even moved. We came up to the calves and rode alongside them as the dog herded them back into the pen.

After walking for a while, I felt comfortable enough to move up to trotting. Trotting a horse, I realized, is way harder than it looks. All I had to do was tap Uno’s flanks and he was off in a trot following Jazzy. But I was popping in and out of the saddle so hard that I thought my brain might bounce out of my head.

Kelly laughed and gave me some pointers for following the horse’s rhythm. Then we rode out into the pasture to move more calves.

I loved riding Uno. He was in sync with me and seemed to know what to do before I did. And although it took a minute to remember what to do with the reigns and how to move with the horse, I felt comfortable and at ease.

We led the horses back to the barn and Kelly unsaddled the horses and handed me a brush. I brushed Jazzy, then watched as Don and Kelly moved the horses around for the night. I took a turn scooping manure out of a stall as the evening light faded into darkness and Don turned on the barn lights.

There was something about being around animals, and maybe specifically horses, that made me feel happy and eager to the do the next thing.

I thanked Don and Kelly and headed out into the darkness.

Maybe, I thought as I drove away, I’m actually a horse person.

8. Scrapes, spiders and the sunrise

Katie Wright — Tue, 09 Oct 2018 18:45:27 GMT

When I told my sister Sarah that one of my planned adventures was watching the sunrise from a cool location, she said, “You could just get up in time to see the sunrise. That’s something you’ve never done before.”

Anyone who knows me will probably agree. I have never been a morning person.

But when I woke up on my own at 7:15 a.m. to the sound of birds singing in the gray light outside our tent, I hopped up, ready to face the task at hand.

Last night, the sun had set across the water, so I knew the sunrise would be beyond the woods behind our campsite. All I had to do was find a view of it.

Unfortunately, I had left my clothes in a pile on the tent floor and they were soaked with dew. I had worn a t-shirt and shorts to bed, so I just pulled on my gym shoes and headed to the woods.

I started to lose my footing and instinctively reached for a handhold; it was a dead tree root that slipped effortlessly out of the cliff side and sent me plummeting backwards to the water. It was an “Oh, crap” moment if there ever was one.

I could see light pink flares just beginning to appear through the leaves. At first, I was able to follow a small trail in the direction of the lake. Then it ended and I was on my own moving through the underbrush. At last, I could see water through the trees. Surely once I got close to the water, I could find a small cliff or beach to sit on.

Alas, it was not to be. Heavy, thick underbrush surrounded the lake, falling into it in areas. I got excited once I found a gully down to the water, but at the end of it was more thick underbrush blocking my view.

Finally, I fought through heavy thorn bushes to the side of a small cliff. Carefully moving myself along the side of it, I thought I might find a place to sit.

I started to lose my footing and instinctively reached for a handhold; it was a dead tree root that slipped effortlessly out of the cliff side and sent me plummeting backwards to the water.

It was an “Oh, crap” moment if there ever was one.

A fallen tree surrounded by thorns and spider webs caught me and broke my fall, but I still landed with a splash in the shallows.

I breathed for a moment, relieved I hadn’t hit my head or lost my phone. Then I looked up. I had found the sunrise.

I stood in the shallows watching for a while. Pinks and oranges lit up the sky and reflected off the placid surface of the lake. It reminded me of when I was little and my grandparents owned a house on Norris Lake in Tennessee. I was always happy to wake up there and see the morning light over the misty water. Not a soul was out yet except me, listening to the birds. Mornings, I must concede, are beautiful.

I hiked back to the campsite through the gully, bouncing from wall to wall until I made it out of the woods.

When I got back, Kelly boiled water over the fire and made coffee in a French press. It was among the top five best cups of coffee I’ve ever had. We sat together outside our tent, drinking coffee and slowly waking up before going for a morning swim.

When I put on my swimsuit I noticed the cuts and scrapes over myself. At some point, a spider fell out of my hair. I laughed. The sunrise was worth it.

7. Camping: chili, cold hotdogs and the magic of fire starter

Katie Wright — Tue, 09 Oct 2018 17:53:31 GMT

We had pitched our tent by the time the sunset sent orange flares across the lake. Kelly and I agreed we were hungry.

“I’ll start filling the air mattresses,” I said, and Kelly said, “I’ll get going on dinner!”

We had set up camp in the non-electric camping area on Cowan Lake, a peaceful, quiet area between thick woods and the lake.

Kelly had wonderfully taken care of the firewood, and we had decided on chili dogs and chips and salsa. She unloaded the wood from the truck and I started filling the mattresses.

Our campsite was close to the beach, and in the dusk I could see some of the neighboring campers. Across the way, a couple with a large dog had spray painted “Just married,” on a huge piece of plywood outside their tent. (I had suggested we congratulate them, but Kelly wanted to stay far away.)

Kelly even tried power steering fluid to see if it was flammable. It created an interesting smell, but didn’t get the flames to spread.

The sun was gone and it was dark by the time I made it over to the fire ring. Kelly was standing over it, trying to get a flame to catch.

“I don’t know what’s going on with this wood,” she said. “It doesn’t want to burn.”

Over the next hour, we tried everything. We burned an entire legal pad of paper, one piece at a time. We took a knife and cut kindling from the wood. Kelly even tried power steering fluid to see if it was flammable. It created an interesting smell, but didn’t get the flames to spread.

Then we started on our neighbors. The men at the nearby campsites were somewhat helpful. We used their lighter fluid to douse our wood and one of them even brought a burning log from his own fire. At first the flames started to catch, but then they died away again.

“Sorry,” our neighbor said, after wildly fanning the logs for ten minutes. “I don’t know what the issue is.” He made his way back to his campsite.

By this time, I was so desperate to eat that I was shoving hotdogs hopelessly into the dying flickers. The pot of chili had been sitting in the fire where we thought it may possibly have been contaminated by the power steering fluid, but we didn’t care.

“I think these are done,” I lied.

“OK,” Kelly said.

And remarkably, after an evening of kayaking, swimming, and setting up a tent, lukewarm hotdogs and chili taste absolutely amazing.

After dinner we looked at each other. Neither of us was willing to be defeated by the fire, although I have to admit I was more ambivalent about it.

“Let’s go to town,” Kelly said.

Speedway, as usual, held the answers. We picked up a gallon of water, charcoal, some gummy bears and the miracle of fire starter.

When we got back, the camping area was pitch black, but we had a roaring fire going within minutes. We got into our ridiculous pajamas, which I had to concede were not only warm and comfortable but also totally cute, and sat down by the fire.

We stayed up late talking and listening to the crickets and the lapping water on the beach. It was a clear night, and far across the lake, heat lightning flickered sporadically over the woods.

When I wrote this adventure on my list, I had merely written, “Sleep outside.” I smiled. This experience had been so much more than that. I climbed into my sleeping bag, set my alarm for just before sunrise, and fell asleep to the rhythmic calls of crickets and frogs.

6. Lake Kayaking

Katie Wright — Tue, 09 Oct 2018 05:01:35 GMT

My friend Kelly was in the outdoor sports section of Wal-Mart when I met up with her for the weekend. I had packed my Chevy Sonic with two air mattresses, pillows, a lantern and a tent I’d borrowed from some generous friends. Now, we were picking up last-minute supplies before hitting Cowan Lake.

And by last-minute supplies, I mean blueberry muffins, hazelnut coffee creamer, a kayak paddle and two pairs of onesie animal pajamas that were Kelly’s idea.

“I won’t do it unless you do it,” Kelly said, fully aware that would do the trick.

Besides, who doesn’t want to sit around a campfire wearing an obnoxious one-piece pajama suit?

I got the cow. She got the giraffe. We threw them in the cart and were off.

Our first stop was the marina at Cowan Lake, where we had decided to kick off our evening on the water. The sun was sparkling on the water as we shoved off the shore on our kayaks and started paddling past the marina.

It’s been a while since I’ve kayaked, and I’ve never done so on a lake, so the first thing I wanted to check was whether I could jump into the water and successfully get back on the kayak without rolling it.

I paddled over to Kelly, promptly crashed into her, and then threw her my phone, keys and shorts. She laughed as I wobbled to a standing position and then jumped in. The water felt perfect. Although I was fully prepared to flip my kayak, battle with it to exhaustion and then drag it to shore, I was glad when I pulled myself back in without incident and we were on our way again.

I loved being on a kayak because it allowed us to explore the shoreline. Huge fish jumped as we paddled close to fallen trees, under low-hanging branches and through the mossy shallows. Then we headed out into the mouth of the lake, where some fishermen waved us on: “You girls are having too much fun!”

Besides, who doesn’t want to sit around a campfire wearing an obnoxious one-piece pajama suit? I got the cow. She got the giraffe. We threw them in the cart and were off.

My shoulders were starting to tire by the time we reached a peninsula with a tiny, dirt beach just big enough for our kayaks. We pulled in, climbed a steep hill and followed a trail through the woods to a picturesque view of the lake. Then we climbed back down to our boats and shoved off again.

“OK, I’m ready to swim too,” Kelly said, just as we turned a corner to the main beach. We beached our boats and swam for about half an hour before realizing the sun was sinking lower. It was time to end our kayaking adventure and head to our campsite.

5. Playing Green Day on the Guitar

Katie Wright — Sat, 06 Oct 2018 19:06:50 GMT

It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right/ I hope you had the time of your life

I’m not sure which made my fingers hurt more: rock climbing, or learning to play chords on a guitar. Even typing at this moment, my left fingertips are numb.

My new neighbor Joe had come across me writing a blog post on my front porch. He suggested a guitar lesson for my October challenge, and kindly acquiesced to giving me one.

“It has to be very basic,” I’d said. So when he unzipped his guitar case and said, “OK. This is a guitar,” I laughed and felt that I could handle the lesson.

I was even happier when Green Day’s song “Good Riddance,” was an option.

D was my kryptonite. No matter how many times I tried it, my fingers rebelled and it was a total mental block.

Joe gave me a pick and explained the different parts of the guitar: the head, the neck, the fret board, the bridge. He used an app on his phone to tune it and explained that factors like weather, moisture and even just playing a guitar can get it out of tune. Then he previewed the chords he would be showing me.

Guitars look easier to play, I think, than they really are. It turns out that using your left fingertips to press discreet strings while strumming or picking with your right takes a great deal of dexterity and thought.

Just learning the first chord – G – was a major challenge. No matter how hard I pressed, I ended up touching the other strings with my fingers, affecting the sound. Then, moving from G to the next chord, C, was not as simple as it should have been, given it only required moving two fingers.

But D was my kryptonite. (Kryptonite by Three Doors Down might be the next song I ask Joe to teach me, and hopefully it doesn’t involve D.) No matter how many times I tried it, my fingers rebelled and it was a total mental block.

“Just try moving from one chord to another,” Joe said. “You’re doing well.”

I played G and C on repeat until I was finally able to move between them more easily. Then I managed to move between C and D.

In dancing, nothing makes sense until you hear the music. It’s the same with playing a guitar. Once I started to hear the music in the chords, my fingers started moving more quickly as my mind put together the song. And then it started to be fun.

Joe suggested I could try singing, but he’s never been in the car with me when John Michael Montgomery’s “Sold” comes on, so he had no idea what he was in for. I politely declined.

I enjoyed playing the guitar and would definitely like to learn more. But before I hit the stage with Green Day or Three Doors Down, voice lessons might be in order…

4. Chasing waterfalls

Katie Wright — Thu, 04 Oct 2018 17:34:10 GMT

“Should I bring my swimsuit?”

I was rifling through a pile of clean clothes on my bedroom floor.

Sarah looked at me with her usual directness.

“If we’re going to be inside a waterfall, then yes. I’m wearing mine.”

My sister Sarah is an excellent adventure buddy. She tends to be game for most things, she’s a kindred spirit, and she owns a Jeep. We knew we had to go on an adventure today, and as soon as I’d said, “Find a waterfall and go inside it,” Sarah was on board.

I found my swimsuit in my car – barely dry from the last impromptu swim I went on – and we hopped in the Jeep to go waterfalling.

(I use the term waterfalling so that we are all clear on what we were doing. Swimming at the falls, it turns out, is strictly prohibited. We wouldn’t dream of it. Waterfalling is nothing like swimming. It is the art of climbing waterfalls and going inside of them. )

We are lucky to live where we do, Sarah and I agreed as we drove south on state route 73. Just 20 minutes from my apartment is the Fallsville Wildlife Preserve, surrounded by some of the prettiest farm land in the county.

We pulled into the parking area next to a trail leading into the woods. An empty, lone pickup truck was the only other car in the lot.

Out of an abundance of caution, I called my brother to let him know where we were. Then we hit the trail, arguing about who would run for help and who would stay and fight if we found trouble. (Over Sarah’s objection, obviously she would be the runner.)

Sunlight slipped through the overhead trees and sparkled on the water. The rocks were mossy and slippery but we made it into the water and up into the falls.

We didn’t end up finding trouble, and we never saw another person. What we did find was a narrow path through the woods leading to a glistening, rushing falls.

We followed the path to a steep climb down to the base of the falls. Sunlight slipped through the overhead trees and sparkled on the water. The rocks were mossy and slippery but we made it into the water and up into the falls.

I ran into a friend at dinner last night who said the last time he was at Fallsville, the water was rushing too heavily to go anywhere near it.

Sarah and I had picked the perfect day, though. The water was chilly but not icy, and it was definitely flowing, but not too heavily that we couldn’t climb in.

We laughed, almost slipped a few times too many, got absolutely soaked, and stood absorbing the falls, the nearby cliffs, and the just-turning leaves.

“I’m glad you brought me along for this,” Sarah said.

We decided to head to Rocky Fork Lake for a swim next since we were already wet. As we scrambled up the steep climb back to the trail, we were both winded.

When we ate dinner later, I realized I was absolutely starving, the kind of hungry you only get from being outside all day. That’s the way I want to feel, I decided, at the end of every day. Adventure number 4 was a success.

3. Yoga Class

Katie Wright — Wed, 03 Oct 2018 17:58:52 GMT

Despite its popularity across my social media news feeds, I’ve never tried Yoga. I think I’ve determined why, and it has to do with libraries. When I was a kid, I used to get into trouble at libraries. There was something about being in an environment where you’re supposed to be quiet and respectful that seemed to bring out the worst in me.

As a kid, I ran away from Sunday school. I got the giggles during any type of quiet time. And more than once I was caught dashing through the halls of the Greene County Public Library on some type of indoor parkour mission. I just hated the idea of being trapped inside somewhere where I had to be quiet.

But when my friend Kelly invited me to join her for Yoga class as part of my October challenge, I had to say yes. Besides, Kelly is an adventurous and outgoing law enforcement officer who rides horses on the side. If she could do it, so could I.

When I arrived, the yoga studio was dim and there was soft music playing. I signed up and looked into the yoga room with slight unease. Candles were lit. Everyone was quiet, wearing yoga pants and tank tops, and some were already on their mats stretching.

Then the door opened and Kelly breezed in, preceded by the unmistakable scent of horse manure and reminding me once more why we are friends. She was in full barn clothes, splattered from head to toe, running late from cleaning out the stalls. This was when I knew I could do a yoga class.

We both laughed, grabbed mats and straps, and settled in for the class.

Yoga, I discovered, is a fantastic way to get back in touch with your own body. It draws your attention to muscles you’d forgotten about and causes you to focus on using them or stretching them. As a dancer, I loved the poses that activate your core and force you to balance yourself. We also planked so often that my back and arms – still sore from rock climbing! – were starting to cry.

Yoga is highly methodical, and that in and of itself is a challenge worth pursuing. Doing things methodically, with purpose and thought, is difficult but worthwhile. We moved slowly and purposely through the poses, from sun salutation to warrior to cobra.

Afterward I felt thoroughly stretched and much more in tune with myself physically. And although I had trouble relaxing during the class, I nearly fell asleep during the relaxation pose.

I thanked Kelly for inviting me, and for sticking around despite the challenge of doing just about any yoga pose in jeans. Adventure number three was complete.

2: Dinner With a Stranger

Katie Wright — Tue, 02 Oct 2018 23:14:53 GMT

By the time I pulled into McDonald’s, I felt like turning right around and heading home.

I did not feel like approaching a total stranger and asking to sit down with them for dinner. Today of all days, I was feeling a little introverted and tired and could have done with a nice long stare at the wall.

But Alas! This was the challenge of the day, so I mustered my courage, grabbed my keys, and told myself there was no turning back.

I picked the local McDonald’s because it was likely I would find someone eating alone, and because McDonald’s happens to fit my budget for this challenge.

As I drove, I made some ground rules:

Unless the other person asks you to leave, you have to eat your entire dinner with them
No one of the opposite gender close to your age
If the other person says no, you have to find someone else, even if you have to go to another restaurant

Walking into a restaurant and scoping out the dining area for lone diners makes you feel a little like a predator in the wild, I have to say. But it didn’t take long. I glanced around and almost immediately saw him sitting in the corner. He was wearing a plaid jacket and a gray beard, and in front of him sat a grocery bag, a cup of coffee, a fish sandwich and the Dayton Daily News.

Somewhere deep inside myself I have a streak of absolute, brazen fearlessness. We all do. This challenge, for me, is about tapping into it – even over something as silly and small as eating a burger with someone I don’t know.

I ordered a burger and fries and walked up to his table in front of a dining room full of people. He seemed surprised but not displeased, and immediately gestured for me to sit down.

His name was Dwight. He grew up in Wisconsin but came to Ohio when his father fell ill. His parents are buried in the Dayton Veteran’s Cemetery, he said.

Dwight was a little hard to talk to. He generally offered monosyllabic responses and avoided eye contact, constantly adjusting his coat or folding a napkin. But when he did talk, he seemed willing to share some of his story. He told me that Wisconsin is beautiful, and when I told him about my challenge, he quietly asked, “Are you going to write a book?”

I said maybe. I asked him if I could get him anything, and he said no, he was fine. I quietly ate my burger; he gazed out the window; we periodically talked.

Eventually Dwight excused himself to the bathroom.

I waited till he came back out and told him I was heading out. He said it was nice to meet me and thanked me for sitting down.

When I walked back out into the warm evening air, I felt silly that anything ever stopped me from sitting down with a stranger. Yes, there is a hump to get over. There are all these silly fears about what people will think and whether you’ll be rejected and God forbid something awkward happens. But when you do get over the hump, you’re rewarded by genuine connection with another human being, with a story that’s worth hearing, and at the very least, a moment to remind you both of your own humanity.

This adventure, I promised myself, is worth a repeat.

Rock Climbing: Mastering a 5.7 with a Re-sewn Figure Eight

Katie Wright — Mon, 01 Oct 2018 23:34:58 GMT

I just called RockQuest to confirm the height of their indoor climbing walls. As a former journalist, accuracy remains in my blood. The helpful employee told me 40-45 feet.

I’m glad I called, because in my mind, they were about 80-85 feet.

The first thing I did when I arrived at RockQuest, after meeting up with my friend Chris, was sign an unnervingly lengthy form.

“You’ve got to sign your life away,” Chris laughed as I pretended not to be a lawyer and scrawled away, ignoring the small print. “It’s OK. I haven’t lost anybody yet.”

Chris brought me into the large climbing area and as I stepped one leg after another in the harness, I looked up. Far up. I had forgotten, I suppose, that I’d developed a bit of a fear of heights in the last few years. As a kid, I climbed towering trees and scrambled up cliffs in the woods. Now, sometimes driving across bridges made me uneasy. It had been a while since I’d climbed anything this high.

Chris explained how he would belay me down the wall. We ran his rope through my harness and he showed me how to tie a knot called a re-sewn figure eight with a Yosemite finish. I couldn’t stop looking up the wall as he explained how reliable the knot is.

Then he said, “Belay is on.” I said, “Climbing,” and he replied, “Climb on.”

I surprised myself, and Chris, by scrambling up the first wall like some kind of spider monkey. Despite my pounding heart and nearly gasping lungs, my childhood in the woods came back to me like an old instinct.

Forty feet below I could hear Chris laughing.

“OK, this was clearly too easy. Let’s bump you up.”

I kicked myself off the wall and felt myself slowly lowering down. That wasn’t bad. I can do this.

The next time around, he let me tie the re-sewn figure eight with the Yosemite finish. And I leveled up to the next wall.

Rock climbing difficulty, Chris explained, is measured by numbers. An easy climb might be a 5.0 or 5.1. A tougher climb would be a 5.8 or 5.9. Only a few people in the world can climb a 5.15.

When I reached the top of the 5.5 wall, I eyed my knot. Had it looked that loose when I tied it? Had I done it right? I’d been a little distracted when Chris has shown me how. I looked down the dizzying length of the wall, back at the knot, and back at Chris, still gripping the chalky handholds.

Finally I said, “Oh well,” and let myself drop.

I lowered down to safety. And my fear started to dissipate, like a fog.

By the second-to-last wall, a 5.7, I got to the top without fear, and I was able to think about technique. I tried to focus on where I was putting my feet, on using my larger muscles, on being strategic instead of just scrambling.

“You’re definitely a power climber,” Chris said. He explained that women typically develop better technique because they don’t rely on their upper body strength. Apparently I was the exception to this rule.

Chris grinned. “You need to get in touch with your feminine side.”

I held my arms out like a zombie. My forearms were numb. My fingers wouldn’t make a fist. But I’d made it to the top of a 5.7., learned how to tie a climbing knot, and best of all, looked down from 45 feet up without fear.

I’m ready to climb on.

Eradicating Carrie Buck in Iceland

Katie Wright — Thu, 17 Aug 2017 01:06:04 GMT

In 1927, a young woman named Carrie Buck lived at a place called “the Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded.” Carrie was 17 years old and had been born with a disability that led the superintendent of the “Colony,” Dr. Albert Sidney Priddy, to estimate that she operated at the mental level of an 8-year-old. Carrie’s mother had been diagnosed with the same intellectual disability, as had her grandmother.

Dr. Priddy believed that by existing and procreating, Carrie posed a genetic threat to society. He filed a petition with his board of directors to have to her forcibly sterilized.

Dr. Priddy’s petition reached the U.S. Supreme Court in the famous case Buck v. Bell, wherein Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, in upholding the forced sterilization, wrote the now-infamous phrase, “Three generations of imbeciles are enough.”

This week, CBS News ran a report about Iceland, referring to it as “the country where Down Syndrome is disappearing.”

“With the rise of prenatal screening tests across Europe and the United states, the number of babies born with Down syndrome has significantly decreased,” the article buoyantly begins, “but few countries have come as close to eradicating Down syndrome births as Iceland.”

The report goes on to say that since screening tests were introduced in the early 2000s, close to 100 percent of pregnancies that tested positive for Down syndrome were terminated. In the U.S., the termination rate is 67 percent.

The termination of these gene pool threats also known as babies was celebrated by many across social media after the release of the report.

After all, the eradication of a genetic defect – or, more correctly, the unborn babies who tested positive for the defect – is better for the rest of us, right?

But to those of us with Oliver Wendell Holmes’ famous phrase ringing in our ears, it brought a haunting chill.

Calling Carrie “the probable potential parent of socially inadequate offspring,” Holmes went on to say in his decision that those who would “sap the strength of the state” must sacrifice to prevent our society being “swamped in with incompetence.”

“It is better for all the world,” Holmes wrote, “if instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime, or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind.”

Ah yes.

It is better for the world if we eradicate the weak. We owe nothing to the one little life, only to the wider pursuit of a more healthy and pristine race. In our Darwinian torrent to grow strong, let us celebrate the elimination of nearly 100 percent of these tiny human lives.

I can’t speak to why each of those families made the decisions they did about their pregnancies.

I can only say that I know many beautiful, strong and happy people for whom Down syndrome has been a diagnosis, but not a death sentence. That 90 years after the test case for Virginia’s Eugenical Sterilization Act, I cannot believe we are specifically eradicating human lives because of disabilities.

And that to applaud a nearly 100-percent “elimination rate” is a slippery slope worthy of the treacherous mountains of Iceland, and Oliver Wendell Holmes would approve.

Poverty, the Denver Post and Ebenezer Scrooge

Katie Wright — Sat, 05 Aug 2017 17:30:44 GMT

The Denver Post published an interesting article this week outlining the results of a poll on the causes of poverty.

In the poll, respondents were essentially asked, If a person is poor, which is more likely to blame: lack of effort on their own part, or difficult circumstances beyond their control?

The results seemed to indicate that Republicans and evangelical Christians were at least twice as likely to blame poverty on lack of individual effort. Democrats or those who don’t associate with a religion were more likely to blame difficult circumstances.

The article read a little like an indictment of evangelical Christian judgment, and perhaps it was. It was a heavy generalization, especially of a group that has historically stood with the poor. But the slant aside, the question itself is one I have often pondered.

As a reporter who spent many hours in court, I was always astounded at how very many poor people were tangled up in the criminal justice system. Now, as a prosecutor, I continue to face daily a majority of defendants who qualify for the public defender because they are deemed indigent.

I’ve asked the question to myself a hundred times: How did this person end up in this unenviable mess? Their contact with the criminal justice system aside, how did they first of all end up homeless, or foreclosed upon, or sleeping on a friend’s porch?

It is certainly easy to live with an answer like, “I live in a comfortable warm house with a family because of my choices. The man shivering on the street is there because of his choices.”

Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol certainly had no trouble living with it when he asked: “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?”

Three ghostly visitations later, of course, he understood that life is more complex than that.

In Scrooge’s defense, we recognize in our own lives the pattern of cause and effect. And it is likely that those who blamed poverty on personal choice had an internal locus of control – a belief that they alone are responsible for their lives and circumstances.

That is a healthy mindset, one I endeavor to have, and it is also the mindset that Ebenezer Scrooge had. He had, after all, spent his life in the counting house, working strenuously for his wealth. He deserved to be rich and he knew it. The poor people, in his mind, hadn’t put in their time. He deserved his lot in life and they deserved theirs. It was justice.

To Scrooge, cause and effect in human life were as ascertainable, as definite, and as unflinching as a mathematical equation.

That isn’t the case.

Honestly, I don’t believe the survey question from the Denver Post article can ever be answered. What causes poverty for one may be her terrible life choices, another, his insurmountable life circumstances. For most it is probably a miserable mix that you and I can only imagine.

Only God knows the deeply complex weave of choice and circumstance that makes up each of our lives, souls and destinies. In the end, thank goodness, we only answer to Him.

I expect no one in my lifetime to get to the bottom of why we have poverty. Jesus himself said, “The poor you will always have with you.” So perhaps the question does not matter that much.

But what does matter, I think, is that we thoughtfully recognize – as Scrooge did on Christmas morning – that the answer is not as simple as we think.

On chasing, embracing, and why you will never be wasted

Katie Wright — Sat, 04 Feb 2017 20:31:19 GMT

Can I tell you something?

The brittle winter branches shake in a slight breeze, and I watch them from the warmth of my apartment.

I am not living the life I planned to live.

I am not living the life I planned when I was 12 and determined to be a large animal veterinarian. I am not living the life I planned when I was 15 and hoped to run national political campaigns and perhaps work at the White House. I am not living the life I planned when I was 20 and had started writing fiction. I’m pretty sure I’m not even where I thought I would be a year ago!

But I am living a life, and it is wonderful one, full of possibilities and challenges.

In Louisa Mae Alcott’s book Little Women, the protagonist, Jo March, is told by a group of young attorneys that she should have been an attorney.

Jo responds, “I should have been a great many things, Mr. Mayor.”

I suspect most of us can identify with Jo’s sentiment.

There are dreams unfulfilled, talents unused, endless possibilities for alternate lives that it seems we could be living. We feel pressure to chase our most fulfilling dreams, to run after the life we want rather than the one we have. We fear that if we don’t, we might somehow be wasted.

But if we were to ask a dolphin, I think it would be clueless as to our meaning.

Dr. Shimi Kang is a Harvard-trained psychiatrist and researcher who wrote the book, “The Dolphin Way.” In her TED talk on the same subject, she explained that dolphins are some of the most resilient and effective animals on our planet. The reason? They have incredible skills for adapting to their present circumstance.

Dr. Kang argues that the one skill we can develop toward a more awesome life is learning to adapt to the life we are in right now.

And of course, the first step to adapting is letting go of whatever other life we are holding on to and afraid of missing out on, and really accepting who and what and where we are right this moment.

That’s a frightening thing for humans to do, because we are told to never settle for less and we deserve so much more and all that poppycock.

Isn’t it wrong to settle?

Do we chase the life we want – a dream life, that morphs and changes like a vision – or embrace the life we have now?

And if we don’t chase the life we think we want, will our talents and abilities somehow be wasted?

Isn’t this our one life? Don’t we have to do it right?

Breathe, little dolphin.

You will not be wasted.

I’m here to tell you that embracing your current life isn’t settling. That yes, you could have been a great many things, but none of them is as important as what you are right now. Who knows what lives you are touching, what rippling little changes you have effected, that are more important than anything you could have imagined?

You may not realize it, but the life you have now demands every ounce of creativity and ability you have. Please apply it.

And once you do, I think you will start moving almost automatically in the direction you should go.

If you have a call on your life, a talent that you believe you should use, use it. Watch God open doors you didn’t even realize existed.

But don’t refuse to adapt just because you’re not living the life you planned.

This one – full of opportunities, challenges and hidden adventures – may be better than you ever dreamed.

On the value of humans in a dehumanizing culture

Katie Wright — Wed, 07 Dec 2016 01:05:42 GMT

I wanted to write this column a few months ago, when a Facebook post by now-President-elect Donald Trump caught my eye.

The Facebook post was about a Trump headquarters location that had been burned by arsonists. The photo was terrible and the alleged crime itself was contemptible.

But what caught my eye was first word of the post: “Animals.”

As in, “Animals representing Hillary Clinton… just firebombed our office…”

I didn’t write this column back in October because I didn’t want to write a political post about Donald Trump or appear to be downplaying the seriousness of the alleged firebombing.

But that word has always stayed somehow in the back of my mind: Animals.

It rang in my ears like a reminder of the language of our culture. How it still, subtly at times, devalues and degrades human life.

I became a pro-life Republican when I was thirteen years old and first held my youngest sister, newly born, in my arms. I was struck with the inherent value of human life, with its precious beauty and vulnerability.

For years after that, in columns and in my work with pro-life advocacy groups, I harped on the sanctity of each human life, from conception to natural death.

I am pro-life because I believe that your value as a person comes from God, and it cannot be taken away from you, no matter what you do or what people do to you.

I have come to realize, after years of political involvement and two years into working in the criminal justice system, that the fight for the sanctity of life is not limited to the abortion debate.

It is a wider, more philosophical fight to recognize the inherent value of our humanness in a culture determined to devalue it.

It can be easy, at times, to stop seeing people as people.

To refer to people who commit crimes as animals. To call someone “a waste of space.” To infer that the death of a drunk driver is one less drunk driver to worry about. Or that a fatal drug overdose was a long time coming.

But the painful paradox is this: When we dehumanize others, we dehumanize ourselves.

If the humanness in those we despise is no longer worth recognizing, what is the value of the humanness in us?

We all choose how we live our lives, and we must face the consequences of our choices, as dire as they may be.

But we don’t get to choose this wonderful truth: that God has invested in each of us an immense and untouchable value, just by making us humans.

This column is not about Donald Trump.

It’s about how we talk about the least of these in our society – whether that be an unborn child, a prisoner convicted of a crime, an illegal immigrant, or simply a person with whom we disagree.

When we call them animals, when we infer they’d be better off dead, when we laugh at the bad things that happen to them, we only succeed in degrading our own humanity.

In his best-selling book Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson wrote that “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

We are more because we are humans, and that alone should be enough.

Enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with that person who disagrees with you: Five tips

Katie Wright — Sat, 19 Nov 2016 20:16:10 GMT

When I was younger, I was politically involved and enjoyed working on local campaigns and writing the occasional opinion column on issues that were (and are still) very important to me. At that time, I had this idea that people who disagreed with me ideologically were somehow inherently malevolent. I didn’t really see them as people, actually, but rather this nefarious blob of threats to our country, lives and freedoms that must be fought at every turn.

I still hold my political and philosophical views and I still believe in inherent, objective truth. But the miracle pill of time and experience has substantially softened my views of people who do not share my beliefs. I have come to understand that reasonable people can come to very different conclusions on important matters. And they can hold those beliefs with just as much conviction and clarity.

So, with Election Day behind us, and Thanksgiving next week, I think it’s important to ask ourselves whether our ideological opponents can be our friends. (Also, whoever came up with the idea to have a large family holiday less than three weeks after Election Day must have had a sense of humor.) I think the answer is yes.

If someone across the table from you this Thanksgiving is also across the aisle from you, don’t throw the turkey at them. Do these five things instead:

Seek to understand the experiences that shaped their beliefs. It is amazing to me how vastly different each person’s experience in life can be, even people who live in the same town or go to the same school. One person could have witnessed someone fraudulently using food stamps, coloring their view of government assistance. Another could have witnessed someone in desperate need, a deeply felt experience that created a conviction in favor of government assistance. Underlying many of our beliefs is something that we witnessed firsthand that shaped our understanding of the world. Be open to how the experiences of others have influenced their perspective on the world.
Reject the flawed logic of political rhetoric. Much of the political spin we are fed by the media or political pundits wouldn’t pass a middle school logic test: “A political candidate is corrupt. That political candidate is also a Democrat. Therefore, all Democrats are corrupt.” Equating all Democrats with corruption or all Republicans with racism is often simply the lazy conclusion of an illogical argument, and it has the result of pitting us against one another from the start – not making for a healthy political climate or a good Thanksgiving dinner.
Look for the good. I have noticed that people who do this well in other areas of their lives don’t always carry it into politics, but rather see it as their responsibility to diligently seek out and highlight the bad in other people’s political views. I always appreciated the quote from Walt Disney’s 1960 movie Pollyanna: “When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will.” Good people can be Democrats for good reasons, and good people can be Republicans for good reasons. (Good people can also vote for third-party candidates for good reasons, believe it or not.)
Don’t do what I did and see people as part of a nefarious blob. If you find yourself saying, “Oh my gosh you’re one of them,” under your breath, definitely stop yourself. Politics is not about Us vs. Them as most campaign speeches would have you believe, but rather about reasoning with others and coming up with solutions to problems we agree we have. If you see people who disagree with you as unreasonable, chances are they see you the same way. They are people made in the image of God, and that in and of itself legitimizes them. So see each individual as just that: a legitimate individual with a right to come to his or her own conclusions through time and experience, not part of a threatening mob of crazy people.
Commit to overlooking, and flat-out refuse to use, the inflammatory language of today’s political environment. “Life and death are in the power of the tongue,” Proverbs 18:21 says. It is alright to have healthy disagreements with people, and it is good to hold your views with passion and conviction. But words really can be a matter of life and death, so respect them and use them wisely. And if someone uses those words against you, ask yourself whether becoming inflamed is really going to help you or that person, and don’t take the bait. Rise above it, for the good of your friendship and our country.

This election cycle has really been a learning experience for me. I have deep respect for people on both ends of the political spectrum, and I also see how hurtful words and perpetuated exaggerations and misconstructions have not only denigrated our dialogue, but threatened to destroy friendships between intelligent and rational people.

I hope that we can open up and seek to understand others, be grateful for the perspectives born out of their life experiences, and rise above the divisive words, even when we ourselves are victims of them.

Perhaps this Thanksgiving is the time and place to start.

The past is not as good as you think

Katie Wright — Sun, 02 Oct 2016 18:15:56 GMT

Fall is in the air, and for me the fresh breeze and falling leaves have always brought with them a sense of the past, of good memories, of old times and places.

The smells of fall – ripe apples on the trees, bonfires, dried leaves – bring back wonderful memories for me. And when they come to mind, sometimes I find myself wishing I could go back.

I will admit that at times I have sought a sort of refuge in the past. It seems like a safe and comfortable place, unlike the present, which always carries a degree of uncertainty and discomfort. I think in a way this is a temptation for all of us, collectively and individually. We tend to look back and believe that things used to be better than they are now.

But spending too much time thinking about and remembering the past is the one thing that is guaranteed to rob us of this wonderful adventure called The Present.

If you are like me and you have had thoughts such as, “Things were easy back then,” or “I was a better person back then,” or “I wish all that hadn’t changed,” I want to encourage you to see the past through a more realistic lens. Here are three quick truths to remember when you want to return to the past:

When you were in the past, it was difficult and scary. Our minds often trick us when they remind us of the past, presenting it in a hazy warm glow softened by time and experience. We are less likely to feel fear and anxiety about the past, because it is over and we know survived it. But back then, survival seemed by no means certain! There were days racked with anxiety, difficulty, fear of the future and all the feelings we struggle with sometimes now.
There is no comparison between the past and present. At times it is easy to slip into comparing how our lives used to be with how they are now. And the truth is, the two cannot be accurately compared. The challenges are completely different. You have grown and changed and you are a different person. The very nature of living in time precludes true comparison between the past and present. Let the past be what it was, and do not spend time analyzing the differences between the past and present.
Lastly, going back into the past would actually be terrible. Think of a wonderful time in the past that you would like to return to. Then, imagine you really did go back. How many people have you met since that time that you are willing to give up meeting? How many experiences have you had since then that you are willing to forfeit? How much difficult but rewarding growth have you experienced since then that you are willing to relinquish? Do not fall into the trap of thinking that going back into the past would be nice. It would be terrible and you would lose out on the amazing place you’re in now and the immense growth you’ve experienced in getting here.

You are here now. It isn’t by mistake. And the next time you are tempted to believe that the past was somehow better than now, remind yourself that isn’t necessarily true. Good memories are a gift to be enjoyed, but the past has had its day. If you are in the present, you are exactly where you need to be.

How to win friends and influence sheep

Katie Wright — Sat, 10 Sep 2016 15:45:38 GMT

When my sister Megan and I were little, we had a small family of sheep.

(This was almost twenty years ago. Megan is now married with four amazing children, but I am single and clearly still hung up on these sheep.)

And yes, this blog post is about literal sheep. If you were looking for a post about Hillary supporters or Trump supporters or the two-party system or anyone who trusts the mainstream media, you’ll have to go elsewhere on the internet. Not far, I’m sure.

It all started with two sheep that we found in the basement of our barn. The barn was to be a sort of retirement home for the two, who happened to be extras in a live nativity scene.

It was a cold December afternoon when we found them, shrieking with delight when we happened upon their great woolly frames. They were not as excited to see us. In fact, they were terrified of us and raced around the barn, their eyes rolling back in terror.

We set about to tame them.

We were very good at taming animals back then. Megan, who had a yearly subscription of that venerable publication, Birds and Blooms, had studied the art of taming birds and had experienced great success at applying the methods to barn cats and gerbils.

I, in the meantime, poured over animal behavior books from the library in hopes of being a professional dog trainer or a veterinarian.

Together we had developed a foolproof methodology of winning the hearts and minds of wild animals, and we set about immediately upon the terrified sheep.

As always, one begins with food. In this case, we obtained some feed corn from the barn next door, which immediately piqued the interest of the quivering subjects.
One must be willing to sit for hours, quietly, holding out a handful of corn, in order to win trust. Soon, the animals relaxed. They became curious.
No eye contact. An animal does not look deeply into your eyes to get to know you. No, they sniff you to know you. So we sat quietly, letting them come up and sniff us, not moving a muscle, staring in unison directly down at the ground, until finally…
The moment of connection. If you move slowly enough, speak softly enough, and provide food, an animal will fall for you. It is as simple as that.

And they became our best friends. They came running to greet us every afternoon, and even made so many escapes from their pen to join us in the yard that they finally received an expanded pen that included the whole barnyard.

The snow melted and spring broke warm across the farm, and one beautiful day, Megan’s sheep, Sunshine, gave birth to twins. A few days later, my sheep, Funny, gave birth to a little one.

The little family was indeed our pride and joy. Spring slipped into summer and we spent every afternoon with our sheep.

Of course, we love and we lose.

We lost the sheep one night, tragically, to a pack of wild dogs. The dogs were eventually found and captured, but not before leaving a trail of dead livestock across the farms on our road.

Megan and I were heartbroken, but it hit Megan hardest. We knew we had to let go.

It was still summer, and not long after the sad news, we came upon another sight.

A tiny baby bird had fallen from its nest.

It looked so little and fuzzy and vulnerable.

Megan and I looked at each other. She raced to the house for a warm blanket and a syringe, and I started digging up worms.

We knew what we had to do.

5 Reasons to be a hero of empathy in the age of outrage

Katie Wright — Thu, 08 Sep 2016 02:50:56 GMT

A while back, I worked for a TV news station. One Friday evening as I was preparing to work a weekend shift publishing content for our website and social media pages, an editor asked me to write a story and post it on our social media pages.

The assignment was not what I would consider newsworthy, but it did have all the potential for an outrageous headline that would throw people into a tizzy of argument on the station’s Facebook timeline.

Grimacing mildly, I asked, “Why is this a story?”

The editor replied, smiling, “It’s a talker.”

Something clicked for me that day (pun intended.)

It could be said that the age of outrage has all but overtaken the age of information. We are making more judgments with less information than ever before. And increasingly, our societal judgments are as harsh as they are immediate.

I don’t even need to prove it to you; look at any shared story in your Facebook news feed. More than half the people opining in the comments didn’t even click on the link. They’re just judging the whole story by the headline.

But what is worse is that many media outlets are playing on this mob mentality. Driven by a desire for clicks, reactions and comments, they select specific words and facts to throw to the forefront, inciting – you guessed it – immediate outrage.

We all pick up our pitchforks. Here we go.

We forget that a five-word headline shared around the world is a drop in the bucket in the life of that human being.

We forget that these faraway monsters featured in the entertaining but appalling share of the day are our neighbors.

If we saw them face-to-face, perhaps we would not so quickly hurl our rocks of shame at them.

However, there is hope. Now and then there is a lone commenter, someone who knows more of the story, or who at least can imagine that there is more to the story. This hero logs on and writes something like, “Wait a minute. Let’s not all pile on. Let’s keep our heads. There could be a lot more here.”

Thank heaven for that person. And when it comes down to it, we should all be that person. We should be the person who holds the dam when the flood of public opinion is about to crash down on some poor soul. Here’s why we should all choose empathy in the age of outrage:

There is always, always, more to the story. I think most of us, deep down, already know this. But by the time the publishing entity in question begrudgingly comes back to give us the facts – if they even do – the story has already taken on a life of its own. The damage – sickening, heart-wrenching – is done. If all of us skimmed our newsfeeds with a critical eye, and said, “I’ll bet there’s more to it than that,” we would certainly be a saner society.
The media should not control our reaction. The writer chose the light in which to cast the story – an enormous responsibility when it comes to the potential for creating public enemies, destroying careers, and ruining lives. But the media too often is not driven by a desire to give us the truth, but rather to steal our eyeballs and our clicks for a few minutes. They should not determine our reaction to an event. We should, when we know the facts that can be known.
Words can do so much harm, and cannot be taken back. Even if one returns later to delete a comment that was perhaps ill-informed or written in the spur of the moment, it lives on unseen. Words can serve as rudders in the lives of others, shifting them in new directions. They carry immense power. In an age where angry, condemning words are plentiful, a thoughtful response – or no response at all! – is golden.
Anger should be saved for when it matters. Harsh words are, in fact, plentiful. So plentiful that “He should be hung,” “What an idiot,” and “She shouldn’t be allowed to have kids,” hardly even have meaning anymore. Why are we leaping to comment and make judgments on everything that happens in the world, anyway? Perhaps we should save our blood pressure.
We will be become better people. Practicing empathy – the ability to see more than the surface, to acknowledge that there is more in each human than meets the eye or finds itself on the screen – will improve our world and ourselves. It takes wisdom to know when and how to speak, humility to understand that we do not see and know everything, and downright heroism to stand up for the good in others when the tide has shifted the other way.

Let the mob rage on. Let’s be those heroes.