I have the good fortune of having a weird, sometimes wonderful, workplace at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. There are semi-secret caves, and the staff got a subterranean tour last week.
I have always hated close space, been very claustrophobic and never had a desire to go spelunking. So, of course I did.
And crawling around on my belly through mud and through tiny gaps in rock that make you certain they will be dropping the jaws of life down to pry you back out made me realize, there’s not much adventure in my life anymore.
As a kid, there was adventure all the time. We’d go out in the woods and create scary real and fictitious adventures. There’d be real human and kid drama. There’d be real and imagined personal danger. But this tiny cave exploration is as close I have gotten to being terrified in a long long time.
And I realized, all the sensations of adventure, of real life fear and new tactile and human interactions of closeness, of the dark and silence of absolute cave interior shared with a group. These are the kinds of things I need to have a WHOLE LOT MORE OF if I want to write about adventures.
If I want my writing out of its rut, I need to get my life out of its rut.
Any suggestions? What do you consider a good adventure?