Hundreds of blue-and-white face-painted warriors charging across the battlefield, manic and fervent, white teeth flashing as they roar into the unknown. The image of Mel Gibson and his Scottish men blazing across a green field came to mind as I registered the tiny fire ants attacking my foot.
Ant hills are cropping up like prairie dog mounds in the heart of Badlands National Park around here in middle Georgia, each teeming with activity. And suppose an unsuspecting, sandal-footed human named Jaclynn happens to step on one while trimming a tree overhead. In that case, it takes her a good few seconds to interpret the pinching, stinging sensation—not as a fleeting prick from a briar bush, but as a full-scale assault.
It’s been two days since the ambush, and my foot looks like a heavily acned teenager’s face. The whiteheads beg to be squeezed, but the skin is too tight, too irritated, too painful to entertain the idea.
I sift through my memory, searching for other notable events to share. And there it is—a noticeable withdrawal from my creative self. It’s as though, in the ant-slash-Braveheart metaphor, she’s been holding her breath underwater for far too long and needs air. She always fears that’s all she has. And the weight of that awareness only makes her freeze more.
I feel this often when I write. The shutting down. The sudden about-face from a path that feels right to the fear that I’m lost.
I’ve been lost before—physically lost, in Snoqualmie National Forest, on a multi-day backpacking trip. I had taken an unmarked path, certain that if I followed it, the boulder-strewn field would lead me back to the lake. But at some point, the certainty gave way to panic. The realization that I didn’t know where I was. The rushing, the stopping, the forcing myself to breathe. Slowing down enough to think clearly. Calling out landmarks—an exposed rock face on a nearby mountain—and deciding to follow it.
I didn’t know if I’d find my way back. But however intimidating that real possibility was, I had time. I needed to keep a calm head and give myself the best chance to make it.
That same feeling sits in my chest now. Not the panic, but the open part. The thrill of possibility. Like standing over a well-tilled, fertilized garden bed, seeds in hand, ready to plant.
I loved the power I felt in finding my way back. And I feel it here too. The dead ends, the frustration, the uncertainty—all giving way to a new opening, a road I’ve never walked before. A version of me I’ve never met. One that pushes past supposed limits into something uncharted and thrilling.
What if that’s what fear is? What I can’t really means? Just a shrug, a “We’ll see about that,” as we open ourselves up to the possibility of something entirely new.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 