We used to keep our bedroom window open at night to hear the rushing water of the creek behind our cabin. Such a relaxing sound. There were no neighbors or traffic to disturb the peace and tranquility of that mountain home. In the winter, the windows were closed and the creek would start to freeze over. The shallow pools along the edges developed a thick slab of ice - enough to walk around on - and the moving water had to fight to get through small channels to keep moving. The closer the water came to the edge, the slower it became, and sometimes swirled around in the same area until it, too, froze in place, postponing its journey until the spring thaw.
Yesterday was our Manna Run at DDIP. The cold air was tough on my lungs and I had a coughing fit when we arrived at Manna on Main Street. Because of this I wasn't able to help pass the food down the chain. Drill noticed me hanging back and shouted "Stoney, why are you on the outskirts?"
We've been having a really good session so far, with challenging workouts and motivated people. Nobody knows exactly what the magic formula is that makes this one stand out so much but others have noticed it as well.
In my case, I feel like I have shaken off a heavy weight. My head is clearer and I feel more focused. I'm not out to prove anything this time around, just to get stronger. And I think, for me, the change has something to do with influence.
I won't go into detail but I think I can pinpoint where I took a wrong turn and let the influence of others draw me to the icy sidelines and slow me down. It was a gradual process, the swirling in circles until I dropped out mid-session to get my head on straight.
I had drifted to the outskirts and got caught up in a cycle of people-pleasing that distracted me from my focus. When will I ever learn? Even at my best, I do not have what it takes to make the whole world happy.
Since the holidays, I feel like I have more confidence and a firmer grasp on who really plays active roles in my life and who draws me to the cold outskirts.
It feels like this is going to be a good year. A year of being who I am without apology. A year of challenging myself to new heights - such as the cargo net I mentioned in my last post. In case you were wondering, I have climbed all the way to the top several times now. And it's only January.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
Hay Loft
It felt like a privilege to be up in the loft, watching Daddy work, so I did my best to stay out of his way. He was tidying up, using the pitchfork to gather and stack loose hay, probably to make room for new bales coming in from the pastures. I took a step back as he changed directions. He sharply said my name and I stepped back again, thinking I was still in the way, but that wasn't it at all. I gasped as my foot went through the opening where the ladder is, and down I went. My leg caught briefly on one of the rungs of the ladder and I saw Daddy reaching down for me, fear in his eyes, before gravity compelled me the rest of the way down. Nothing was broken, but there were bruises - lots of them. That may have been the day my fear of heights was born. I was eight years old.
A lot of people have a fear of heights, so I've been okay with mine. Until now.
In college, I was in ROTC. We learned rappelling - bounding off a building with a rope. The first time we were to try it, off the mezzanine in the gym, I was kind of excited. The guys made it look so fun. But what looks fun from the ground looks quite different from the top. I was all snug in my Swiss seat, and the instructor was handing me the rope. Everyone was doing their thing, high on adrenaline, having fun, but I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes.
All I had to do (all I had to do!) was stand on the ledge with my heels over the edge, lean back into an L shape with my feet against the building. (I have stopped typing to wipe the sweat off my hands twice already, just telling the story), then bound down. I knew the steps. I knew I was safe. But knowledge is no match for raw terror. So I got off that wall my own way. I cried, blubbered, begged, and made a fool of myself until the let me walk back down the stairs.
We went away for a weekend of training at Fort Indiantown Gap, where this challenge presented itself again. There were two towers. One was 60 feet high. My husband took it in two bounds. (He was also able to rappel forward, spread-eagle, like a skydiver, which I watched him do off the school building as part of an ROTC demo for incoming students. I don't think he has the slightest fear of heights.)
The other tower was 30 feet high. I was determined to do it this time, and the instructor was able to coax me backwards off the ledge. I cannot explain how much fun it was to bound down the wall. Once I cleared the edge, it was exhilarating! Still high on that experience, I did it once again before the fear came back.
It is hard to understand why I still have a paralyzing fear of heights after such a victory, but remembering how that victory felt is motivating me to take action.
In the gym where we have boot camp, there is a vertical cargo net hanging next to the foam pits. It looks pretty high but I won't try to guess how high. I want to climb to the top. Today I tried it for the first time and got halfway up before giving up. Next time I'll try to wait longer before I look down.
I can do this!
A lot of people have a fear of heights, so I've been okay with mine. Until now.
In college, I was in ROTC. We learned rappelling - bounding off a building with a rope. The first time we were to try it, off the mezzanine in the gym, I was kind of excited. The guys made it look so fun. But what looks fun from the ground looks quite different from the top. I was all snug in my Swiss seat, and the instructor was handing me the rope. Everyone was doing their thing, high on adrenaline, having fun, but I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes.
All I had to do (all I had to do!) was stand on the ledge with my heels over the edge, lean back into an L shape with my feet against the building. (I have stopped typing to wipe the sweat off my hands twice already, just telling the story), then bound down. I knew the steps. I knew I was safe. But knowledge is no match for raw terror. So I got off that wall my own way. I cried, blubbered, begged, and made a fool of myself until the let me walk back down the stairs.
We went away for a weekend of training at Fort Indiantown Gap, where this challenge presented itself again. There were two towers. One was 60 feet high. My husband took it in two bounds. (He was also able to rappel forward, spread-eagle, like a skydiver, which I watched him do off the school building as part of an ROTC demo for incoming students. I don't think he has the slightest fear of heights.)
The other tower was 30 feet high. I was determined to do it this time, and the instructor was able to coax me backwards off the ledge. I cannot explain how much fun it was to bound down the wall. Once I cleared the edge, it was exhilarating! Still high on that experience, I did it once again before the fear came back.
It is hard to understand why I still have a paralyzing fear of heights after such a victory, but remembering how that victory felt is motivating me to take action.
In the gym where we have boot camp, there is a vertical cargo net hanging next to the foam pits. It looks pretty high but I won't try to guess how high. I want to climb to the top. Today I tried it for the first time and got halfway up before giving up. Next time I'll try to wait longer before I look down.
I can do this!
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