Mapping the Unknown Edges of a Life

Ancient mapmakers used to draw dragons at the edges of the parchment. It was their way of saying: “We haven’t been here yet. It’s wild, it’s dangerous, and we don’t have a name for it.” In 2015, I wrote about how we do the same thing with our own minds. We stay in the “known” center—the busy routines, the safe titles—and we fear the “dragons” of our untapped potential or our deepest anxieties. But lately, as I stand in the clearing of my own life in Vermont, I’ve realized something: The dragons aren’t there to keep us out. They are there to show us where the frontier begins.

When I feel myself “spinning”—trying to figure out how a novel fits with a state-level career, or how 12-inch walls intersect with a meditation cushion—I return to the practice of Mind Mapping. It’s not a technical exercise. It’s an embodiment practice.

Now you try it: Stop for a second. Feel your breath hitting your upper lip. Feel the weight of your feet on the floor (or the sawdust on your boots). Taste the air.

When you start from that place of presence, a Mind Map becomes a mirror. It allows you to see the fractures, the connections, and most importantly, the gaps.

Ten years ago, I used mind maps to help clients find their vision. Today, I use them to find my way through the “charnel ground” of modern systems. I map out the the daily grind of a state job. I map out the structure of StoneWater (my novel). I map out how a single mother builds a sanctuary in the woods.

Mapping helps us become friendly with our dragons. Instead of freaking out about the unknown, we begin to play with the boundaries. We realize that the “scary edges” are actually where the most creative growth happens.