Over 20 years ago while rafting the wild and scenic Rogue River in Southern Oregon, our guide suggested that if we followed a creek about a quarter of a mile from the river that we would find a wonderful "swimming hole" at the bottom of a pretty little waterfall.
Our party couldn't resist. We walked the short quarter of a mile, and several jumped in to swim. I became intrigued with the waterfall. There was a rope hanging to the right of the fall. A number of high-school and college-aged men were climbing the 12 to 15 feet up the rope. When they got to the top, they would sit at the top of the waterfall for a minute or two, allowing the water to build pressure behind them. At a critical moment, each would use his hands to lift his rear just enough that the water would send him cascading into the pool below.
"I want to do that!" I said. I had not been known for either my courage or athletic prowess, and at the time, I was undecidedly in "middle age." Upper body strength wasn't a strong suit for me either. My companions thought I was joking. I was not. I wanted to do that. Amidst friendly joshing, I grabbed the rope and started the climb.
Between the ridges in the rocks and the rope, I did pretty well for the first eight to ten feet, but by that point, my arms were shaking from weakness. Slowly but surely, I continued my climb. Finally, when I was 12 to 18 inches from the top, I had no strength left. I could hardly hold the rope. The problem was there wasn't an easy way down, and I didn't think I could make it up. There I hung, shaking. By this point, jeers had turned to cheers. How could I stop now? But there was nothing left.
Just when I could go no further, two young men with arms the size of small trees reached down, each grabbing one of my shaking arms, and swooped my diminutive figure up to the ledge. It felt like a miracle to me. Actually, it was a miracle now that I think of it. That, it seems, was the easy part.
I don't know what I'd been thinking. I get shaky on a step ladder, and this ledge was easily two or three times the height of a ladder. What had I been thinking? What had looked like such fun at the bottom now looked terrifying. But, there was no other way down, and besides that, I was now firmly the center of attention from the adults below and the young men behind me.
The guys explained to me what I had to do, and one even demonstrated. They provided lots of encouragement. Courage was something I had to provide. I sat for several minutes at the top of the fall, much longer than any of them had. I could feel the water building up behind me. One said, you just need to lift up a little bit, and the water takes care of the rest. "Yeah," I said knowingly. That wasn't exactly the nudge I needed at the moment. I sat and sat. Much cheering continued from above and below.
I am not sure where it came from, but I finally found the courage to lift ever the slightest bit, and, just as promised, over I went. Faster than I knew what was happening, I was splashing in the pool below. I do believe that was the most exhilarating moment of my life.
In an extended meditation over the weekend, I kept seeing myself being pulled up by those two hunky young men. The metaphor was not wasted on me. I've been exhausted, just as I'd keep feeling, even promising myself, I was near the top of the ledge. I've been so exhausted that I've felt shaky and weak physically--not sure how I'd push on. I've felt like I couldn't see my way up, but there was no good way down. And, I've been hanging there for much of the year.
I uttered a prayer, "Dear God, please lift me up."
The words I heard back, "Only you can help yourself. You have it in you."
"Geez, God. Can't you do better than that? I wanted to feel you swoop me out of this situation, like those two young men did on the ledge."
Almost as soon as I took my minute to wallow in self-pity, I understood what I must do. The people I work with will not only allow, but will encourage and tacitly require the labor I've been putting in...until I refuse to do it any more. So I have. Instead of 11- and 12-hour days, I've work 9 and 9.5 the last two days. I left at a few minutes after my "normal" quitting time to have a drink with some women friends. Tomorrow, I will leave on time to make it to my tango class.
Having an extra two to three hours in the evening has been almost as exhilarating as splashing into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, but I think the real parallel to that experience is just around the corner.
Last week I wrote about being "Left Hanging" (8/26.) Two of the situations have resolved themselves. My trip was postponed until a time when I couldn't take it, and I got into the class for which I'd been on the waiting list. It ends up that the class is much more personal growth than I'd anticipated. It has been a decade since I've walked into those waters. As I've done pre-work activities, I've found myself really anticipating (8/8) the work. I expect that I am going to find myself almost as excited as I was when I splashed into that pool those years ago. I believe that I needed to do the work to get myself to the top, though, before I could feel the delight when it is finished.
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