Going Clean

So this is me and my sister, Annie B.  Note our natural state.  We are in this photo about to embark on a week of showerless existence.  I woke up that morning and said to myself, Let the week of no make up, no hair do, lots of wet wipes, and prayers begin.

I may have been a little excited about it (and the fact that I can take photos with my watch as a timer . . . holy. cow.  I mean, look at these awesome shots I got of me . . . yes, you are welcome to laugh your head off at them.  I do).





 but really . . . aren't they a little awesome?  I mean . . . look at those jumps!

So we camped.



We hiked.  

We biked (a lot).



We saw bears (if you look really careful you'll see him too . . . Finn biked right by him about a foot away . . . Hello, Bear.  You're cute.  But I'm still scared of you).




We cooked (and it was hard.   Bear boxes . . . BEAR BOXES will be the death of me.  Honestly, my phone tracked a mile I walked during one dinner.  I literally worked for my food.  But . . . I love them too.  Thank you bear boxes for protecting us).

We cleaned (not always so well).

And made a lot of bead bracelets and played cards and built a tower of hammocks (four one on top of each other)






Yes.  I had several heart attacks when they were A) putting them up; B) getting into them . . . every single time all 80 times a day; and C) when they were taking them down.  It' only a broken bone.  It's only a broken bone I'd tell myself in advance.  Then I remembered that we have no cell service and are 45 minutes from the nearest help.  Then pretty much, I just prayed.  Really really really hard.

Hallelujah.  My prayers were answered.  This time . . .

And I survived.  Well, with lots of help with elastics and baptisms in Jenny Lake.  



It was very very cold.  Piper had to help me . . .
 

And I'm going to be honest . . . in so many ways, as I came out of that crystal clear, ice cold (literally my head ached after I went under and I immediately began to shiver after thirty seconds of swimming) water, I felt cleaner than I ever have.

I think it's because I was so stinking grateful to just be able to wash the sweat and grime and smoke off my body.  I didn't even care that I didn't have soap, just the glide of clean water over my salty, sticky skin was heaven.

A simple and wonderful pleasure that filled us with gratitude and refreshed us . . . our bodies, our minds, and I know I'm going to sound super cheesy, but it totally filled our souls.  And we weren't alone in this.  Each afternoon and evening there was a pilgrimage to Jenny lake . . . we met kindred spirits there . . . and learned about each other as we waded and swam in the water and sat shivering on the rocky beach as we prayed the sun would warm our shaking limbs.



Oh man.  I want back there.  Like so bad.  We had almost nothing, but really, we had everything.  We had enough food, warm blankets to sleep in, good shoes to hike in, a lake to swim in, and people like us who were wondering but not lost.  In fact, I think we all found ourselves.  And each other.

It made me think about how my life has gotten all dirtied up in so many ways.

I've spent all these months and maybe even years worrying about me.  My shape, my size, my fitness, my lack of fitness, my face, my hair, my clothes.  Everything.  I spent this summer thinking literally these thoughts almost daily . . .

I am lost.  I am fat.  I am afraid.  I am ugly.  I hate my hair.  I am a bad mother.  I am a bad friend.  I fail as a daughter and sister and wife.  I can't remember anything.  I am going nowhere.  I am . . . replaceable in every aspect of my life.

These are pretty ugly thoughts.  And they're raw and its hard to even admit them in type.  But that's where I was.  I felt myself pulling in, like a turtle afraid of the noises of life.  I was almost all tucked in.  Just a little tail of hope sticking out when I went on this trip.  I loved the idea that I was heading out into the wilderness because it meant I didn't have to fail at anything for five days . . . because camping was a great experiment in failure.  You start out behind.  Hallelujah.

And so, I started that morning by not putting a speck of make up on after I got out of the shower.  And letting my hair air dry.  And putting on my old camping clothes that I didn't care if they got smoky and dirty and gross.

That's the first thing I noticed.  As I was pulling on my shapeless awesome pants and an old white tshirt and a ragged sweatshirt, this bubble rose in my chest.  A strange and mysterious feeling that felt slightly familiar but I was unsure what it was . . . but it wasn't bad.

When I pulled into Aloma and Rick's double wide house yard with the brilliant sharp view of the Grand Tetons and ate a meal of delicious hamburgers, hot dogs, pasta salad, and chips and soda on the back porch, the bubble got bigger and started filling up my chest and spreading out to my arms.

A heart attack?

A panic attack?

What?  What is this feeling?

It's very familiar yet . . . I can't place it.

Then as the sun began to set, everyone set out, in crap shoes and old shorts, to hike the hill above their house to sit and watch the world change into a thousand colors and the air filled with the fragrance of sage, warm grasses, and fresh fresh mountain air . . .

I remembered what that feeling was because it burst out of me.

Joy.

Happiness.

Peace.

Sigh.

Wow.

Had it really been that long that I'd felt this blessed combination of delicious essence of life?  Like why it's good to be alive?  Had I been that busy and that lost and that blind and stupid that I'd lost it?

Ah.

Yeah.

So . . . what did I do?

I laughed.

I hugged my kids.

I ran down the hill with Anne and listened to everyones stories and hugged them.

And as dusk set in, I took about a thousand ridiculous pictures of me jumping and yogaing and doing whatever the heck I wanted.

Because, well, that's what happens when you find joy again.

And I threw myself at it with every bit of energy I had.

And we got a campsite . . . the BEST campsite ever in the history of awesome campsites.

I slept like a baby.  I ate and everything tasted like heaven.  Literally it was so delicious I cleared my plates and got seconds.  I smiled.  I smiled at everyone and turned and looked at everyone around me.  The people on the trail beside me, in the camp site beside us, on the beach next to us, in the water swimming, and talking in hushed tones as we watercolored and they watched the sun set.

I walked into the bathroom each morning and laughed, out loud, and gave myself high fives in the mirror for the craziest hair yet (the best morning . . . when I kept my hat on all night--it's very cold at night--and my hair was literally sticking out on all sides like a wild witch and my face . . . I looked 900) and walked back out and greeted the world without worrying a bit.  Not one bit.

Because, you know what, this body is just a shell.  I love it, don't get me wrong, but the best part of me, it's inside.  And remembering that, made me remember that everyone is just like me.  They're infinitely amazing and interesting and beautiful.

Instead of seeing my lack and the lack of everyone around me (I'm so good at that . . . so good . . .), I started seeing beauty.  Like in everything.  I wanted to take everyone I met home with me.  I wanted to hug them (and I did).  I wanted to tell them I loved them (I didn't . . . that just is maybe too weird) because I did.  That saying, happiness is catching, spread it like a disease . . . well, let me tell you, I was raging with the disease and I tried to spread it like the Spanish Flu (ok, maybe not the best comparison . . .).  But you get my drift, right?

Oh, heavens to Betsy.  It felt good.  I felt good.  And crazy thing, I got smiles, laughter, people listening to me, and I'm telling you, I felt so loved.

When I came home, John looked at me and he said, You look luminous.

I smiled.  I knew it wasn't just the sun.  It's that bubble.  It's still with me.   I'm free.  I'm clean.  Jenny Lake baptized me and I'm coming out fresh and new.

And I'm not going back to that grumpy old dried up prune faced negator Mary.

Ever.

New Mary has arrived.  She may not look as good on the outside (Jenny's lack of worry about the outside has stuck), but she's rock solid on the inside.

The morning after we made camp, Anne and I were sitting in the sun, soaking up the warmth and watching two small fauns eating grass right beside our chairs.  The sky was filled with a thousand colors and the sun rays of the sun were shooting out behind a low cloud.  Sacred and unreal and utterly beautiful.

We heard the other cars coming for the parade as we called it to see if they could get into the camp ground (you had to arrive at 5 or 6am to get a spot . . . to hope there is a vacancy so you can get a spot).  As I watched the cars and the hopeful faces staring out behind the windows, I thought, Sucks to be you . . . that's right.  WE've got the best camp site EVER!  Feel Jealous, it's ok.  I would.  Because we are SMART and got here early and . . .

"Oh, oh, oh," my sister interrupted my thoughts, "I hope, I so hope, that they all get in. Let's just sit here and hope for them Mary.  Let's hope everyone gets to camp here.  I hope they all get to experience this magic."

I swallowed.

Uh.

Yeah.  Right.  We hope they get in . . . ?

But  . . .

Ug.  Yep, there's old Mary rearing her head.  No, Bad Mary.  Shut.  UP.

So I sat there with Annie and watched those cars and hopeful faces and hoped that everyone could stay there too.  And I meant it.

Abundance.

And each morning after, as the Parade would drive by, we would count the cars and when there were more than 5, we were so happy.  One morning twenty people got camp sites.  We did a happy dance for them all.

So, that's me.  The new me.




Have you had anything change you?  A trip?  A conversation? A friend?  A place where you felt this fundamental shift in you . . . ?

I want to hear about it.

I'm listening. I'm curious.  You are my kind of person.  I just know it.