Meditations on Change and Hair Dye

About an hour from my house, there is a place called the Salt Flats; an expanse of desert in a long flat valley, sparkling white with a thick layer of crystal salt, the ghost of a lake that once covered this valley.

If you go there at night, you can see all the stars above, and the wind is cold and dry in your throat, like the ash of prehistoric sea life. In the distance are mountains, purple and eerie. And if you get up and run as fast a you can toward them, they never seem to get closer; it is only when you turn and look back at the blanket and flashlight and thermos you left behind, that you realize how far you ran, that you are now just a spec in the great glittering expanse of nothing, hung between two places like a star.

And you run back, faster than you want to admit, as fast as if all the bogey men of your childhood were coming down out of those distant mountains and calling your name.

Change is like that.

I've done so much, run so far, but sometimes I feel like nothing is different until I look back at who and where I was last year, the year before. Back when I was in the comfort of denial and I'll-do-it-someday. Back in the time when I wasn't stumbling through writing Something I Want People to Read for People Who Want to Read It, back when I was just a wanna be writer, one working too hard at life and being normal to actually do it.

I look behind at the comfort of that blanket on the ground, the comfort of nothing yet ventured–it's so far away–and I want to run back. The mountains ahead are so far away and so cold looking, and I swear the desert is howling for me, calling my soul to Hell. I'm sure all the demons I have ever imagined are waiting in the shadows, hungry, salivating.

But unlike running in the desert, I can't turn back. Those mountains are where I want to be, even if they are still impossibly distant, even if those monsters live and breathe and I have to slay them with my trembling ink-stained hands.

Even if no one likes what I write.

I can't go back. As much as I sometimes wish to, I'm not that person anymore. I need a change, something to remind me every day that I am different, that its ok to move on.

I read once that people who wanted to make major changes in their lives were able to do so easily after merely changing their route to work each day. Change one thing, anything, and life makes room for more alterations.

Enter a box of hair dye, a bottle of wine, and irowboat's help.

Today, I stare at the world from beneath magenta bangs instead of my natural brown laced with early white.

It seems like such a small thing, changing hair color. Reversible, insignificant, superficial.

But that's the point. Life is a series of small shifts, small steps in one direction or another, each step a reminder of the way we want to go, and shuffling that direction.

Novels aren't written in 30,000-word chunks; they are done 5, 500, 1,342 words at a time, each word and sentence and hour set aside for just the purpose another step through the salty netherworld between.

Those moutnains aren't going to get up and walk their demon-infested paths to us. We have to go to them and fight the good fight all the way to the top. And remember not to go back.

Every time I look in the mirror, I'll remember to not look back, to go forward, to be brave, and bold, and loud.

Let the rest of life follow.





10 thoughts on “Meditations on Change and Hair Dye

    1. Hey Gail! Thanks for stopping in! I’m so happy I can pass some inspiration your way – you’ve inspired me so much, good to know it can be paid back.

  1. I like the new color, and the great metaphor you found to describe the scariness that goes with change. We want it and we fear it. We need it and we hate it. We try to avoid it and yet our life is full of it.

    Can’t dye my hair (too many allergy issues), but I will take your point to heart. Change something to make changing everything a little easier. Thanks.

    1. Thanks, Kit! I’m still enjoying it – even if I get some funny looks from time to time. The funny looks just add to the sense of difference, and indeed it is needed.

      I remember a talk I heard by Pema Chodron about leaning into fear and change, making friends with them because they are constant bedfellows. What you said makes me think of that.

      If you ever really need a change, there’s always the kool-aid trick… Rock it like you’re 14 and your parents won’t give permission :p

  2. Absolutely brilliant. I love that description of the Salt Flats and of the process of forward movement in the writing journey. I am not as far along as being a speck from the blanket yet (or as you point out, maybe I really am), but thank you for the reminder to keep on with the journey to the mountains and their adventures. To go forward, not back.

  3. So maybe I´ll change my hair colour too – easier than several of the other ongoing changes… Thanks for continuing to write, and not going back! Love, Margareta

  4. Sometimes – well, most of the time, really – I feel like giving up, let it go, leaving it for tomorrow. Or the day after that. And sometimes, when it happens – not so often as I should, though – I go check on your blog, and I feel both incredibly sad – because of my own cowardice – and relieved at the same time. Because it’s possible, because you ARE doing it and, most of all, because even if you are achieving something tremendously complex, you’re still thinking of us, far far behind on the blanket, too afraid to go to the moutains. And you give us a thumbs up to help us move. So thanks. You don’t know how much that means to me 🙂
    (and I like your new color, by the way)

    1. Thank you, Catimi! Your comment came in just at a moment when I was feeling squishy and doubtful about what I’m doing, if I’m making the right decisions.

      You brought tears to my eyes. This is exactly why I wrote the novels, and why I keep on blogging – exactly why. Thank you, thank you. Your words are beautiful.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s