It’s not what you might be thinking. It’s not about trying to be bigger, badder, better than badass.

Hell no.

Instead, it’s about what you do, where you go, who you are when you (try to) leave being badass behind. When you begin to push that part of your identity, or at least, that thing you’ve always strived to be, to the wayside. When the time comes to strip yourself of your armor, and find true courage to just be you… whatever, whoever that may be.

Maybe it will mean being badass after all.

Or maybe not.

We’ll see.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn a big knife on my belt. My first one was gifted to me well before my son was born. It’s been over three decades of different knives, but almost always some sort of blade hanging at my hip.

People think it’s to be badass or something (and yes, maybe it is a little of that) but if you walk around with me, you’ll see it’s used to cut thistles, dig up dandelions, open bales of hay, and a dozen other things daily. It gets used a lot. In fact, the few times I leave it home (it doesn’t go over so well in big cities, kids camps nor airplane travel), I end up feeling a little lost and find myself reaching for it like the handy tool it really is. Nothing badass about it, you see?

Is there life beyond badass?

Now, with just two weeks before we load up horses, chickens, tools and camp and head towards Colorado, that’s what I’m trying to keep in mind (and heart and soul) as we prepare to leave leave this safe, secure, serene oasis behind, at least for a little while, and head to rough and rugged, high and wild, and the adventurous spirit that ain’t about comfort and ease.

Do I have to be badass again?

Just when I thought I was softening…

“The hell I won’t.”

“Different” is the word they used to describe me when I was growing up. Gee, thanks.

WTF is different?

My brothers had brains, my sister had beauty, so me, I decided, I’d have… I’d be badass.

That was my personal choice for defining different. And when you’re different, I guess you have a choice.

And so it was. Badass it would be. It became that protective shield I could hide behind, felt safe behind.

I did my darnedest to keep up that identity, though I’ll save those stories for another time.

All I knew as a kid was that I was different, and well, that kinda sucks.

Different.

As in…?

I decided it meant find your own way. Take care of yourself. Get tough. Be badass.

Badass it would be. I’d carry that like a badge. Or a shield. Of course, a lot of us carry a shield we think will keep us safe, but all it really does is keep us apart.

What the hell did I know then?

Different they said I was; different I would be.

Now I’m old enough to be me. And very much a part.

Time to crack that badass armor open.

What’s underneath? We’ll see. Maybe a lot of mush. If so, would that really be so bad?

I’m thinking it’s a little more solid than that. Maybe more like clay. Soft and smooth and pliable, resilient and creative. Good stuff. The stuff we’ve all been waiting to share. The really rich inner river where you can lay back and float and find yourself flowing just fine, thank you very much.

Underneath that armor a lot of us hide behind (I think I’m not the only one) we all have a part of that river flowing through us, the surge of common humanity, streaming with shared experiences and emotions which serve as both fragile and tenacious veins like silken threads that hold us together, and keep us afloat.

But that’s deeper than I care to go this week. You’re off the hook for now.

Seems like badass is a popular thing to be these days. Right on, I get it. It’s been a guiding principle in my life, that’s for sure.

But it has a downside. Everything does. And maybe that downside makes it, at least for me in my ripening years, something I’m seriously thinking of leaving behind.

You know “badass” is a shell we hide behind that’s supposed to keep us safe. Maybe it does. Worked well enough for me. But badass as an identity can also be a wall that separates us from others. A wall that can be pretty hard to scale, you know?

It separates. Sets you apart. At least that’s how it worked for me. When what I really wanted (don’t we all?) is to be a part.

Time to connect.

Here’s an update:

I broke down and got a phone two years ago. I’m still not proud to admit that.

And if I didn’t then, now it’s really happening. I’m entering the modern era. At least I’m giving it a try. I’m learning social media. Just last week, I set up an Instagram account, mostly so I can check out the tiny homes and puppy pictures my sister likes to share. But it’s kind of fun. Maybe it’s not all that evil. (Just a little bit.) Maybe it really can help us all connect and find that common thread. Though so much of what I see out there is still about separation.

For now, I’m going to use it as a way of connecting. And of softening, a medium to share something beautiful everyday, something beautiful from this beautiful, gentle land and river that hold me, that let me soften and see, deeply, clearly, leaning in, safely.

And then, well, we’ll see. Then we’ll be in the high country where it’s all about open spaces, harsh and wild, and safety is a little more uncertain. But that doesn’t mean I have to be like the land.

One can be a soft spot in a hard place.

I think.

We’ll see.

So about being on social media, please, that does not mean I’m suddenly going to be posting selfies!

However…

I did it. Did a selfie with a bestie.

See? Modern woman.

“Sometimes a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”

Oh, and… as for that new nose piercing? You might say I should know better at my age. I say I’m old enough to know what I want. That’s one of my favorite things about aging. I don’t need to give a damn any more (though oft times I choose to). Thirty five years ago when I got my first tattoo, it was something I had to hide. Now even my parents say ink is cool. In the shop where Cindy and I went in for our bling, the kids working there said about fifty percent of their clients were old as us. Times change, and so do we.

In my ripening age, I’m thinking it’s time to stop striving for badass. Really, my muscles and skin are already softening, or at least starting to sag. Go with the flow sort of thing.

Maybe softening is one of the privileges of age. It’s not so much becoming a fine wine. At least not for me. Feels more like oak barrel whiskey, and that’s okay by me.

That said, I don’t think I’m gonna turn to mush anytime soon.

It’s more like I’ve cracked the badass shell and now am learning to let molten lava flow.

And yet that thing about leaving this comfortable place for a while and heading out and up to high, harsh and wild… for sure it’s a little scary. And nuts. The challenge is in being in the harsh environment and still allowing my self to soften. Can I? Or does that work and world require badass, like Jeremiah Johnson and the Man from Stony River?

Not any more. Besides, they both had a soft side too.

I can write my own adventure. Be my own hero. Need not try to be the Terminator any more. And certainly never wanted to be a Disney princess. Just me.

And maybe being me need not require being badass. Just a little crazy.

I can do that.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin