On Leaving Room for Surprises

We contain multitudes.

I can’t explain why I do it.

On paper, it’s a series of things I hate — rising before dawn to trek to a place where a port-a-potty is the only option. Jostling into a crowd, regardless of heat or cold or rain. Sweat, exertion, and sometimes pain.

If you had told younger me that one day I would pay to participate in road races — to run distances, in public, on purpose — I would have laughed at you. As a kid, I was not particularly athletic. I collected elaborate excuses for getting out of gym class. Whenever someone threw a ball in my direction, my reaction was to flinch and cover my face with my hands.

My first race was unintended. A (mean) ex-boyfriend and his marathoner friend signed me up for a 10K without my knowledge. The night before the race, they presented me with my bib number. It was part joke, part dare, part passive aggressive way of calling me lazy. I accepted the challenge and finished right behind them.

To be clear, I didn’t enjoy that experience. It was a slog, with only my stubbornness to carry me through. But it left its mark. The adrenaline, the feeling of moving with a herd. The foil blanket draped, cape like, over our shoulders at the finish line, like a curious cross between a superhero and a rotisserie chicken.

Becoming a runner for the races is a bit like becoming an actor for the applause. But what an incredible thing, when one’s efforts are eventually met with shared excitement. That relationship wasn’t built to last, but it left me with a fantastic parting gift. One I’m still enjoying over a decade later.

This is not an ad for running — something I trust you’ve heard of — nor for any specific activity. It’s about the capacity to surprise ourselves.

When we’re young, self-discovery is implicit. We’re finding our way, making messes and learning from them. It’s only natural to uncover new likes and dislikes, skills and abilities.

Then life intervenes, with its labels, titles, and expectations. Somewhere among the schedules and to-do lists, the inhibitions we gather along the way, we can work our way into a groove. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing — grooves can be comfy, stable places to curl up for a while. But they can also lead to inertia. To narratives we can’t escape.

Just as it can be challenging to forge new friendships in adulthood, it can feel tricky to try on new selves. Oftentimes, friends will bemoan the larger changes they’ve made — or wish they could make. Location, vocation, lifestyle. With a whole new landscape, the thinking goes, we’ll find a whole new life.

Of course big changes are worthy of focus. But little things matter, too. Smaller shifts can be a gateway to larger ones, ushering in new habits, interests, mindsets. They can also be profound and impactful on their own.

Perhaps you don’t have to uproot your entire world to find a different view. You can just take a different route home.

To wit, over the last year my partner has taken up cross stitch. It started with a kit from Subversive, after I casually suggested we make some sassy signage for our bathroom, and soon spiraled into a full-blown hobby.

Behold, cross stitch renditions of The Wheel of Fortune and my dog’s face.

There is a surprising amount of gear for this. All kinds of hoops. (“I used to use a wooden scroll frame, but my favorites are the plastic Q-Snaps.”) Threaders. Floss wax. A needle minder, which is a cute little magnet that holds one’s needles.

“I’m not shocked that I like this, because I’ve always enjoyed quiet, focused activities,” he said. “But if you’d asked my younger self if he pictured wearing a necklace with a pin cushion attached, then no, I probably wouldn’t have seen this coming.”

“Has cross stitch changed your life?” I asked.

“No, it hasn’t changed my life, it’s sewing!” He paused for a minute. “But actually, it’s given me a creative outlet. I fancy myself as an artistic person, but I don’t lead an artistic life. Would I love to take piano lessons or try my hand at painting? Sure. But at this stage, it’s hard to carve out the time. This is a way I can create something that is meaningful and beautiful with my own two hands. And that’s not nothing.”

Running has changed my life, and continues to do so. Not because of exercise or endorphins or any of that, which are great, and undoubtedly play a role in keeping me coming back. But for me, running has helped me meet a self I didn’t know existed.

I’ve historically never been one for stick-with-it-ness. I loved to start projects and abandon them. I was easily discouraged, intimidated, disheartened. I thought this was part of my character.

But when I run a race, you better believe I am going to finish the thing. And every time I do, it teaches me that I can.

It can be liberating to uncover that you’re not exactly who you thought you were. That you have the capacity to change. To experiment. To unfold.

As Walt Whitman wrote, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”

Multitudes, multitudes. More than we know.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the UV Tarot Deck from Modest Mouse with art by Violet Aveline

As I pondered this week’s card, I was reminded of the most memorable dining experience of my life thus far.

It was a Saturday evening at a bustling restaurant, packed to the brim with life. At one point during the meal, a server lost his footing while rushing across the dining room. He managed to catch himself before falling, but his tray was not so lucky. It sailed through the air, sending multiple entrées flying. Glass shattered, ice cubes skittered, silverware clattered to a deafening halt.

The whole restaurant went silent, watching the debacle unfold. I braced myself for an epic meltdown — the manager screaming, the server dissolving into an embarrassed puddle next to the spilled soup. We all sat, rapt, as he erupted into the biggest, most joyful laugh I’d ever heard. He laughed and laughed, until eventually, everyone joined him.

The Eight of Wands is a curious card. Traditionally, it shows eight wands suspended in midair, following what appears to be a swift trajectory. Where did the wands come from? What set them on this path? Where are they headed? No one knows.

The Eight of Wands leaves a lot open for interpretation. And that is very much the point.

On the surface, this card is about “swift movement.” Change can happen quickly. Progress can surprise you. This is true — it can. But the more interesting question lies in how we deal with such momentum.

How do we feel grounded while suspended in midair?

This week’s message speaks to those times when you’re in the midst of a process — any process. There is that moment when your direction seems uncertain. Followed by the moment where you wonder if you’ll stick the landing/cross the finish line/wind up where you hope.

In lieu of eight wands, this card shows a figure in motion. Are they in the process of leaping? Or are they in the process of landing? Either way, there is something to be learned.

Humans have a tendency to think in absolutes. From the time we are children, we are taught to identify opposites. Hot and cold. High and low. Good and evil.

By this logic, “settled” and “in motion” might seem like opposing states. But when examined through another lens, they are actually complementary, part of the same process. So are “comfort” and “risk.” You don’t have to exclusively choose one or the other. Nor must you identify as someone who tends toward any extreme.

The flying wands understand that change can be disorienting. It can be hard to feel grounded when everything is up in the air. But even when you can’t make contact, the ground is always there.

Much like the server in the busy restaurant, there is an awful lot we can’t control or predict. How we fall, if we fall, where we land when we do. But our reactions often have more power than we know.

Above all else, this card teaches that leaping and landing are not opposites. They are inextricably linked. There is always a leap before you land. The land is always waiting for you. There is wisdom in knowing this. There is also comfort.

We can’t know how it settles until it settles. And even then, there is always room for surprises.

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