“You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.”
These words, penned by world-famous Canadian author, Stephen King, perfectly sum up my feelings about my ‘place of brave’.
Brave is not a big, confident creature. Not a swashbuckling hero of ‘get-er-done’.
More often than not, brave is a tiny voice inside you, quietly waiting for the right time to declare, “Yes, you can.”
I found my own voice of brave when I first came to B.C. Canada.
We arrived in September, a splendid time of year. The leaves are tumbling, change is in the air and the breeze pinches your cheeks with a pleasant, rosy glow.
Yet as I wandered the streets of my new city, excitement and fear rumbled in my belly.
It was the fear that kept me awake at night.
“What have you done? What will you do? You must be mad!”
My inner critics, wretched goblins who squatted in my brain, grew larger, feasting on the worries that accompanied this bold, new adventure.
Then, on an impulse, my boyfriend and I decided to take a road-trip to Whistler.
Often, as travellers, we focus on the destination. We grumble at the bus journey, the plane ride, or hours wasted in the back seat of a car. But for me, the best part has always been the ride. That zing of exhilaration from being in transit, allows me the space for a quiet calm to settle. It is in this space between ‘here’ and ‘there’ that I realize anything is possible. I am reminded that just by upping and moving, you can change your destiny. That you are in charge.
It was on this magnificent stretch of highway that joins Whistler to Vancouver, that I had my epiphany. It was here that I finally listened to the small voice in my head that had been trying to speak since I was a girl. Up close with the mountains, bald eagles soar overhead, there are teal glacial waters all around. If you’re lucky, the radio will play music in sync with your mood. It was on this stretch of highway that my ‘little voice of brave’ finally spoke up: “You can do it! Look at the mountains… they are not afraid. They are who they are. Be you.”
Since I was a child, I had dreamed of writing. Any kind of writing, I didn’t care. Quite honestly, the simple act of writing; a story, a letter, a shopping list, filled me with light. But even though I had written for more years than I could remember, when anyone asked me “What do you do?” I still felt like a fake. A phoney. A charlatan. Writers publish books and write daily newspapers columns. I wrote on napkins and scraps of paper and then hid my words away. I was an imposter. But on this journey into the B.C. mountains, my little ‘voice of brave’ gained courage. The beautiful surroundings filled my soul with inspiration, until the faint whisper grew into a chant: “Yes you can. Yes you can. Yes you can.”
What is so glorious about the sea to sky highway, is that after such a breathtaking road trip, the destination is also world-class. Whistler. A place where millions of travelers descend each year. But Whistler has no inflated ego due to its reputation. It’s famous, yet humble. Fancy, but down-to-earth. I truly believe that every place has a unique vibration and Whistler’s pulse is totally in sync with nature.
Gone is the hurly burly rush of the slick city. Here, locals live on ‘mountain time’. People don’t dress-down, but dress right. Part-hippy, part ski-bum, part awesome.
Since that first trip, I’ve visited Whistler in all seasons, but it’s still fall that is my favourite. The maple trees in the village are vibrant hues of scarlet and crimson. The atmosphere is relaxed, as though the village is exhaling, taking a breath from all the visitors. Summer, with its mountain bikers plowing through the village on expensive bikes, is now just a faint memory. Winter, where snow enthusiasts will invade, is just around the corner. But for now it’s calm; it’s just locals and the occasional group of tourists who enjoy the space between busy seasons.
Today, some 15 years after that first ‘epiphany-tastic’ road trip where I found the courage to declare that I was a ‘real’ writer, Whistler is still my place of brave.
And I can honestly say, that even when those wretched goblins of self-doubt come to dine, I do not regret listening to the little voice that quietly persisted, “Yes, you can.”
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