Beech Tree News Network

On Friday evening, I climbed a wall.  It was a man-made wall, one of those rock walls with handholds and footholds set at random places all the way to the top, about 25 feet from the floor.  I’ve done this before, albeit more than 20 years ago.

Facing the wall, I thought, “I can do this, it shouldn’t be a problem.”  I did do it.  It was a problem, however.  I hadn’t factored in the extra 20 years of gardening, mowing, and wood-carrying I had put my body through.  I have always depended on my strong will.  I have always believed it could and would carry me anywhere, even up that wall of 25 feet.  It did. Once.  Back on the floor, I lay on my back for a good eight minutes recovering.  I couldn’t do it again. 

I was mystified at my inability to repeat the process, then I became mystified by the fact that I had been mystified at my inability.  This is “me” we’re talking about.  The “me” that preaches realism as a nearly second religion.  The “me” that says, “We’re not going to live forever.”  Somewhere, in the deep recesses of my brain, I must believe I AM going to live forever—on this earth, I mean.

I suffered greatly that night—leg cramps, muscle tremors, a backache.  (Remarkably, my arms were never sore.  Go figure.)  It was my body telling me that 20 years had passed.  My inner Google Map App had figured out that I was going in the wrong direction, and it was time for a redirect.  I told myself, if I had any hope of accomplishing the goals I had set, I had better get busy with my realistic self and let go of the things that were no longer mine.   

Many times, I have wished I was raised by my biological mother.  Yes, she was a bit unstable and somewhat eccentric, but she knew me, the young me, I mean.  We were separated throughout my growing-up years, but when my sister and I finally located her, she said, “The thing I remember most about you, Cheryl June, is that you wanted to know what was yours.  If somebody offered to give you something, you would always ask, ‘Can I keep it or do I have to give it back?’  If you had to give it back, you refused to take it in the first place.”  I was four-years-old when I said that.  I had already come to the realization that things could be taken from me, so I had better not hold on too tightly. 

What’s left that can’t be taken from me?  That is the question we all have to deal with at some point in our lives.  Recently, I saw an interview with the paraplegic swimmer and gold-medalist, Malory Whitman.  She became paralyzed at age nineteen, and the only thing left for her was swimming, so she swam.  She said, “At the end of the day, we are more than our circumstances.”

We ARE more than our circumstances, but it is often those difficult circumstances that strip away the non-essential layers, the layers that keep hidden the you and me clamoring to get to the surface. 

One of my granddaughter’s favorite stories about herself as a toddler happened in my kitchen.  For some reason, known only to Sabria’s toddler-self, she would pull the dish towels down from the handle of my stove, where they hung, and drape them over her head and body.  She would then start crawling around on the floor, trying to navigate by feel only.  One day, she crawled up to the table leg, where her head bumped up against the sturdy wood.  Instead of crawling around the table leg, she stayed where she was, butting her head against the leg again and again, in an attempt to wear it down.  She wore herself down instead.

Thankfully, Sabria is a very different person today.  She is very adept at using the things in her environment to solve problems.  I think, she picked that up from her grandfather, Garey.

Redirection is about acceptance of yourself and your limitations.  Sometimes, it even involves grieving for the things that are lost before you can embrace the things that are found.  One thing is for sure, I’m not going back up that wall any time soon.