The road up the mountain was covered with a thin layer of snow. The road was so narrow that the limbs from the bushes and trees almost touched the truck. I followed the road but had no idea where I was going, just up. At the top of the mountain the trees were covered in a thin layer of ice and the wind blew with an eerie force. I stood there in the dark night with the snow melting on my face, questioning my need to come here. Questioning my purpose to find myself in unfamiliar territory but understanding the internal drive to help others find peace.

I shuffled my boots across the mountain top until I found the cabin that would be my home for the week. The cabin air was warm but smelled of mold and dust. The bed was small and hard like some of the earth that I had slept on. I thought of my family back home and once again questioned my purpose for traveling to this place. As the question marks danced around in my head, I fell asleep to the sound of the wind pounding against the cabin windows.

My morning routine is always the same. A protein shake followed by morning stretching. Though some would call it Yoga, I’m confident a country boy should just call it stretching. I found my way to the large room strategically placed on top of the mountain. Though the view of the trees and adjoining mountains was breathtaking, my heart and soul wanted to be on another mountain surrounded by the sound of no one but the trees that were calling me. In the large room were a group of first responders who had lived lives full of color and came here to find a way to return to coloring inside the lines. I don’t claim to have mastered the skills of coloring on the canvas of life. I learned early on that the color from life will bleed onto our canvas and the lines are just a guide, not the borders. Somehow, I found a way to express myself without concern from that flux of emotions that seem to hide in the nooks and crannies of our very complex souls.

At the age of 11, I decided to do something very disrespectful to a teacher. That decision caused me to be confined to my room. It was there that I found a way to express the flux of emotions that comes with living a life full of color. As I peered out my bedroom window to the field behind our home, I poured my emotions onto paper. From that day long ago until this day, I find myself able to seek peace behind the pen or a keyboard.

As I looked across the room at the faces of the first responders, I realized our mission here on this mountain was to provide a place and the right canvas for them to find their peace. As the introductions are made, it’s never a difficult choice for me to take what I like to call, either the easy left or the hard right. Which means, do I skimp on sharing the delivery of my intense emotions, or do I pour my soul onto the fresh uncolored canvas of this room? Do I lead this group of men by example, or do I allow them to stumble? For the most part, people do not express their emotions due to the concern that once the emotions are out, they must be faced. If the concern does not lie in facing the emotions, then the concern is about being judged by others. How do we lead others to the clean canvas they are searching for? If I sit there as an example for leading others to share their own emotions, I must make the choice to take the hard right, regardless of if I don’t want to be judged. I swallow the lump in my throat and ignore the trees that are calling to me from afar. I stand before strangers, strangers only in the sense I did not know them before today, but we share a common thread of pain; and we all are woven into the canvas of life. I think back to the first thing I wrote, and I feel that collection of metal in my pocket that represents the stories I have heard and felt. I stand before God and others and deliver the “hard right” of how I got here. When I sit down, I feel regret because I worry some in the room may have judged me for the brush strokes of what I just painted.

As the week progresses the clean canvas on top of the mountain is painted with each one of the first responders’ stories. The laughter, the smiles, and the tears become more present. Somehow, we have cracked open the gate to their emotions. One morning I was handed a worn department patch from one of the first responders. It’s not an uncommon gift in this field to give a colleague a patch from your department. I held the patch in my hand and could feel the threads that were sewn to his uniform. My gut could feel all the emotions that this patch endured as it represented who he worked for, but not who he is. The stories he painted on the canvas since his gate was now slightly ajar, screamed from this patch with his own very hard right. In many ways this patch was a portal to his soul. I sat there looking out over the trees and once again I could hear them calling me. The trees never judge me and it’s easy to hide behind the pen and the keyboard. I swallow the lump in my throat and once again I take the hard right. I open my gate wide, grab the brush and paint the canvas. I tell the group of the patch and the threads that somehow confine us, that can cut us, but they also join us. I explained that to many it’s just a worn patch but to me it’s the threads dangling from that worn patch that mean so much. Many times, as I have climbed mountains and traveled narrow roads, it’s those threads that seem to help me find my way back home. The threads of pain have us all searching for the clean canvas to paint inside the lines.

The last morning I was on that mountain, I was laying on the floor of the moldy dusty cabin stretching. I looked up and saw a boot print on the ceiling. It did not look like it was from Spider Man, so it must have been left by someone who built this cabin many years ago. Whoever it was left their mark intentionally or unintentionally. It was by chance I saw it, and thought about the mark I am leaving as I climb these mountains and hide behind the pen and the keyboard. I travel to distant places and surround myself with people who struggle to open their gates and let those emotions flow. Since the age of 11, I realized the intense beauty and relief it is to allow those emotions to be free. But at the age of 55, I’ve struggled for a long time to keep my gate closed. I live in fear of being judged as a man who can freely express his inner self and those emotions that search for that clean canvas. I walked outside the cabin and looked over the trees and for once they did not call me. I placed my hands on the wooden porch railing and said, “Whatever time I have left here, I will no longer live in fear of being judged.”

As I drove home with the patch in my pocket and the collection of metal, I could see the canvas much clearer than ever before. There is a sense of relief in my soul and the struggle to keep the gate closed is no longer there. I can see the faces of those men who now have figured out that the lines were never meant to be painted in, because life is messy. They now realize that the canvas of life will never be completely clean because we grow from the drop cloth of life, not the canvas. Those dangling threads that can cut us also bind us to a much bigger canvas, where pain is interwoven with hope, and healing, and love. The best paintings in life are the ones we paint. We are our own famous artists, painting our stories one stroke at a time. Our paintings will withstand the test of time because we have lived a life full of color, because we have bled.

I stood before those men and many others since I retired four years ago. Often, I say I retired to spend more time with my family. I realize now after seeing a boot print on the ceiling, I most likely retired so I could be me. Though it sounds much more noble to say I retired to spend more time with family, I just wanted to be free to write without oversight and to speak from every nook and cranny of my soul. I write from my heart and my words have significant weight to them. I do not write to inspire others to overcome the mountains we find ourselves on. We do not overcome mountains, we climb them. I’m not famous, nor will you ever see one of my quotes on an office wall. My pages are torn and weathered from that life of color. I simply write to inspire hope. My dilemma of taking an easy left or a hard right will no longer be a dilemma. I will speak from the soul from a life of color, and from that color comes wisdom. Not the wisdom that causes you to push through the canvas of life but the wisdom that speaks of faith, hope, and love. The wisdom that allows you to see the portal to my soul. It’s in there, my drop cloth of life that’s made me who I am. I will no longer hide behind the pen and the keyboard. The trees will no longer call me but instead they will rejoice in me being me. I’m confident I still have a gate keeper but not for my emotions anymore. It feels good to be free and remember life was meant to be messy.

This one is for you Cactus.

WLV

You can see more and learn more about Josey’s writings at