The fear is real… and yet so are the wonders…

There may have been a poetic (even if somewhat terrifying) reason we went Canyoneering as a family a few weeks ago.

For, given where I stand in my life right now, the metaphors from the experience all seem increasingly relevant.

I had wanted to try canyoneering for a while and had heard of other folks’ experiences. The guided trip I found said “families” and “12-and-up”, which made me think I could do it. Of course, given my luck, the one I landed on turned out to be pretty intense –involving more than 8 hours in the wilderness with eight waterfalls to rapel from and slippery, knee-deep water hikes from one waterfall to another. But again, it was in the midst of untouched nature and incredibly beautiful.

Akin to where I stand right now, it was the only way to be, the only way was forward and the only thing to do was to keep moving, no matter how unsettling, no matter how unnerving.

The fear is real, very real. Letting go is hard, very hard. And yet, all I need to do is to let go, all I can do is to let go.

I stand at the overhang (of the waterfall) and stare down - terrified. It seems physically and emotionally impossible to let go, to simply jump off the overhang. To allow my feet to let go of the known faithful ground beneath me. Yet the temptation of an experience and rainbows in the waterfall lies below me. Only if I can let go.

After the first rapel, I start laughing and can’t stop. “Was fun, huh?” asks the guide. “Yes!” I reply. I am thrilled that I did it, I am thrilled at how much I loved the experience. I also wonder if the laughter is sheer hysteria. Hmmm...  

At another very tall waterfall, I tell the guide I can’t do it. We will have to find another way for me to get down. “Don’t open that window, ” he says. Part therapist, part guide, I know what he means. If I must escape, if I must give up, I know there will be ways. I resignedly move forward.

I’m on a ledge in the middle of a 95 ft waterfall. I’m ready to give up. I can’t do this anymore, I decide. It was all a bad idea. I’m ready to be done, to throw in the towel.

I ask the guide above for help, for what I should do next. I’m slipping on the rocks. He says things. Many things. Many helpful things. I hear none of them. I only hear the gushing of the waterfall.  

I look at the guide below for help and instructions. He can’t hear me, he signals.

I’m on my own. Entirely. Only I can help myself. I will have to find my own courage.

I have no choice. No one can help me. I need to figure this out. The courage arrives – not a brilliant burst, but a more pissed-off, resigned one. But courage is courage and I’ll take it.

It is poetry in motion – an easy understanding of cause and effect and of the combination of letting go and courage. If I can be brave, if I can let go and simply lean back, I can enjoy the moment. Every time my foot slips, or nerves get the better of me, in my fear, and my clenching, I move towards the rock, wanting to freeze. I understand that instead of clenching, when I am able to let go, it is so much easier, so much more fun. I work towards it, towards letting go, for I know that is the only way forward.  

Perhaps, the biggest takeaway is the knowledge that I know I am safe and that things are good.

Even if my knuckles are bleeding and I am scratched and bruised and am making crazy demands on my not-so-strong body, I know I am safely belayed and that I am safe despite all my fears. If I can keep reminding myself of that, I can relax better. The discomfort is minor, the experience is exhilarating, the double rainbows I am rappelling through are real.

And while I can magnify the terrifying moments and let them consume me, there are all really on one side of the scale. There are some pretty awesome things on the other.

And that may be what I need to remember. Especially today. And maybe always.