Sitting here, in the chair I got nearly three years ago from my first ever housemate in Tahoe, staring at my (what feels like) huge laptop screen, with the windows framing National Forest behind, I feel a sensation of tingling in my chest. No no, not like that, more like butterflies, but ones that are up in my throat.

This is the first time I am sitting down to write, my story, in six weeks. Of course, I have gone this long, and much longer, in the past, between my writing streaks and focuses. However, this time it feels much different. Last time I sat down to write my story, I was writing the last few sections of my memoir. With a goal to complete a “shitty first draft” of my memoir before my feet touched the cement in the United States, after five months in New Zealand, I nearly had made it. Even with a large amount of content to write, I had 14 hour plane ride ahead, and I even wouldn’t be getting back into California for a week after my first touch down. It was doable. It was going to happen. I was going to complete the first draft of a book.

Also, I was tired. The feeling of overworked and over focus was clear in my body, mind and heart. Looking forward to sitting down to write was no longer apparent, but rather that section of my day had turned into a task. Sharing this with a friend, colleague and housemate, I simply said, “I need a break.”

“Then, take a break,” he responded casually and nonchalantly.

Then and there, I decided I would take the two or three days off from writing, until we began our journey home, allowing me to enjoy the last 48 hours in the incredible place that I called home for three months, in the snowy, tussock, mountains of New Zealand. The everyday demand to write at least 1,000 words for my book each day brought much needed relief and relaxation. My focus was on packing, and enjoying every last moment, with wonderful people in a beautiful place. My writing would recommend shortly, and I would have hours on end to do nothing but write, nap, watch movies and drink coffee. Perfect.

Then, I mucked up.

With my snowboard strapped to my feet, in it’s multi-color splendor, I was turned horizontally, my heel edge down, looking ahead, stopped, deciding what to do. What I always did was slid down the tiny hill, covered more by tussock now than snow, turning slightly right, and unstrapping right outside the storage shed. A lot of people ride a little bit further down the road though, especially the staff, saving them a few hundred steps of walking. Looking on to the road, I saw one of our many club members, walking on the right hand side of the track, with his skis and poles in his arms. On the left hand side of the track was a think landing strip of snow. The only layer of snow left on the road in this super Spring conditions. Conditions so stark, lacking snow coverage, I would have never otherwise snowboarded in them. However, the culture here is a bit different, part of my volunteering was up on the mountain, plus, I was still having a blast, hooping and hollering while carving through mountain slushies.

I went for it.

Down the track, feeling good, smiling. Then, the man suddenly moved over to the left side of the track, walking on my one and only strip of snow. Yelling, “hey hey hey watch out!” and running through my mind the options available to me, I was in pure panic. The strip was only wide enough for my snowboard to go down pointed forward. To get out of the way, I would have to jump onto the dirt, mud, tussock and rocks on the right. I could not stop by turning my board sideways, because there was a mud/dirt/rock bank to my left that would not allow my board to turn all the way. Looking back now, I know exactly what I should have done. First of all, I should have just unstrapped by the shed. Secondly, I should have gone to the man’s right, onto the mud and tussock, letting the friction stop me. Instead, I tried to squeeze on the left, sticking to the snow, when last minute he still did not hear me and I was about to run into him, I bailed to the far left, off of the tiny track of snow, right into the bank.

My left knee slammed into a sharp rock, and my head slammed into the bank, right on the top of my head. I heard my neck slam together like an accordion of bones. CRUNCH! The very top of my head, with my MIPS helmet on of course, was the direct contact, as if I was an animal with horns ramming into another animal. Alas, I was simply a homo sapian who liked extreme sports and made poor decisions.

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no,” was all I could say as the tears flooded my eyes, and my hands were shaking. The man rushed to my side. I knew him well, as he stayed at the lodges about once a week. Asking me if I was okay, all I could say was, “oh no.” I knew what I had done.

Concussion.

Yeah, my knee hurt like bloody hell, and it was my bad knee that I had hit on a rock during the last trip to New Zealand, as I was running towards a waterfall. In this scheme of things, in the gradient of injuries, a broken or fracture knee was no big deal. I hit my head. I heard the crunch. Even with a helmet, I knew I was in trouble. This was not my first head injury. I knew.

My symptoms were mild. Headaches, cloudy thoughts, slow talking during conversation. All only during the first 24-48 hours. Just so happened that those 48 hours were the hours we were traveling back to the states. Packing all my gear, hauling off the mountain and into the airport, traveling for 28 hours from New Zealand to the East Coast, all with a recent head injury. It was pretty damn horrendous. What’s more, there was no writing. No writing allowed.

If you have read my previous posts about my serious concussion injury a year and a half ago, you would know a little bit about the restrictions necessary in order to not only heal from a concussion, but to simply get through every day without wailing in misery alone in your room.

After a few weeks of following all the routines I had learned during my last concussion, focusing on sleeping, meditation and eating healthy, I am now headache free. Outside of extreme situations, like driving for excessive periods, driving at night, or watching too many hours of movies or spending too much time on the computer at work, I’m feeling pretty dang good.

Therefore, it is time to recommence writing my book, and finish the gosh darn thing already!

This morning, when I sat down to write, fear seemed to slither through my veins, and clench my heart. What am I afraid of? Afraid that I do not have the same flow and focus that I had six weeks ago when I was busting out 1,000 to 8,000 words a day? Afraid that I have changed over the last six weeks and therefore my writing will have changed? Am I afraid to pick up where I left off because even then, I was not sure how much detail to write and what stories to leave in or take out? Am I afraid to finish? To finally achieve the goal? To have to move onto editing? Am I afraid that I am out of excuses again, and I have to stop being lazy and relaxed and start focusing and prioritizing my craft again?

Or, is it excitement?

Sitting down at my desk, that I hadn’t sat at in months, and barely even used for the entirety of last season, looking at the mug little trinkets around me giving me inspiration and focused, I did feel excitement. This is my space, my ears locked in my the headphones pumping out my “Writing Music” playlist, the mug and the photograph filled with memories of traveling on the road, and camping. The laptop that my brother gifted me that I thought would feel too large compared to my tablet bluetooth keyboard, but feels amazing under my fingertips as it seems to soften the intense punches that my hands can’t help but give, and the view outside the window. My home. The forest. The trees.

It is what I have been doing, and what I continue to do – navigate through the trees. I wrote about it on my John Muir Trail hike, and I felt the trees on my last hike up the foot path of broken river. What is it about the trees that I feel so connected with?

Strength. Grounded. Continuously growing. Even when they are dead inside, they are beautiful.

Staring out the window, once again, contemplating the journey ahead, and the one I have walked behind me, I know I can do it. The excitement will bring me to the desk. The craving will keep my fingers moving. The music will ensure my focus. The fear will fuel the emotions, and the drive to overcome. The love from all of you…it will carry me through, completing the writing phase, and onto the editing phase.

Today, I will contemplate my new deadline. Thanksgiving Day? December 14th? December 4th? No deadline?

That’s it for now. Thank you for reading.