A writing teacher once told me I was like the canary they’d send into the mine to test the air. If a concept stuck with me, she knew she’d struck gold. No pun intended.

Fast-forward to Aspen, 2003. I’m standing there in a hard hat, about to board a guided trolley tour into a coal mine, and by the looks of me, I seem perfectly suited for the job. Helmet on. Bravado engaged. Curiosity doing most of the talking.

Which would be fine—except I’d already heard this story before. At my first job, a woman once likened me to the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. Cheshire cats. Canaries. Who makes this stuff up?

I’ll stick with being Stephanie, thank you. No one sets out trying to be the Cheshire Cat. Or the canary. And yet somehow, there I was again—standing at the mouth of something ominous, confidence out front, curiosity close behind, quietly telling myself, Seriously? You don’t have a clue.

And that’s usually when the thoughts start.

The Canary

I never liked being the canary. Why me?

Truth be told, if I’m an animal, I’m the scaredy cat. Or the Cowardly Lion. If you could hear what’s going on inside my head, I’m not the sacrificial bird heading into the mine like it’s an ordinary thing. My thoughts are doing the opposite. They’re telling me, Don’t do it. Stay back. Let someone else be brave.

That’s the part people don’t see. From the outside, it might look like I’m stepping forward. On the inside, I’m negotiating with myself, trying to talk my way out of whatever comes next.

And that’s when the thoughts start getting louder.

Inside the Mine

Let me loose into that mine, and my thoughts rush in along with me.

Try navigating a mine while second-guessing why you have to be in there at all. Alone. Trying to be the forerunner while your thoughts refuse to leave you alone.

The darkness closes in. Will I ever make it out of here?

And just when I think I can’t take much more, the thoughts shift—thickening the air, turning it cold and damp, spilling out around me until I can’t tell what’s mine and what I’m reacting to.

That’s when I know I can’t keep going like this.

The Vault

As you can imagine, my problem wasn’t that I had to be the canary—or even that I kept questioning why I was the guinea pig in the first place. I didn’t need to stop fighting animal metaphors—okay, maybe that too. Mostly, I just needed a place to rest my thoughts before I entered the mine and they engulfed me.

Instead of trying to imagine a container I couldn’t see, I built something I could. A golden Vault. Sturdy. Safe. A place to set my thoughts down for safekeeping.

And once my thoughts stopped getting in my way, I was free to be that canary after all.

Darn if my writing teacher wasn’t right after all.
I am that canary — just one who needs a golden Vault to keep me from flying off the coop.

Is that how that saying goes?

PS: The Muse Vault
If you ever feel like that canary — thoughts buzzing, attention scattered — the Muse Vault is here. You’ll find it just below. Use it if you want. It will be here if you need it.