I am on a walk on a Tuesday evening, heading towards my daughter’s soccer practice. I have a destination, a mission, a sight to steer my wobbly feet towards.
I once referred to these strolls as “medicine walks.” My daily double dose of extra-personalized therapy. A time to check in with myself, clear my thoughts, and empty my mind. Quite literally. I would speak out loud, placing my voice into the air as if the trees, the oxygen, the leaves, the root beds, and fallen stumps were psychoanalysts paid by the footprint.
I took these walks seriously, prioritizing them. They had gravity. They made a huge difference in my well-being. I mean, my being was well—much weller—because of them. They were as essential a therapy session, exercise class, or coaching episode.
This evening, however, the medicine has been dislocated. It’s out here, but I can’t quite drink from its noble cup. I’m still walking. Stagnant energy is the harbinger of anxiety.
I spot a playground with a zip line. A simple, small-town, public-park version. I hop aboard from ground level and ride for three seconds before being bounced back to the start.
Now, I have spent many a faithful hour pulling my kids on these ropes over the years. I have smiled and encouraged and cheered and soothed skinned knees. This time, though, it’s my turn.
I’m alone. It’s Tuesday evening. 10 minutes until soccer practice is done.
A voice within me: “Do it. You’ve never done it. This is therapy. This is recovery. This is a step on the road to wellness. This is life force on a wire rope. This is the medicine.”
All right then, voicey. I got nothing to lose, right?
I take the rope, pull myself back and let go. I soar, smooth and wild, young again, all here in one single place again. As I approach the end of the first leg of the ride—the “to” journey that will soon be met by a “fro”—my body begins to tense, bracing itself for the hit, the bang, the rebound, the wall.
That wall, you know. That place we fear we may be heading to. My body tenses. I’m fearing the worst. A hard hit.
I don’t slow down, though. I don’t give up. I’m reminded: How you do anything is how you do everything.
I relax and receive what awaits me. I do my very best to surrender.
Phwoosh. The swing hits the end…
I am returning towards the start. The wall wasn’t so hard after all. It was actually, dare I say, enjoyable.
I’m ready for round two. I hop on board and give myself an extra dose of momentum for the ride. Weeeeeeeeeee! This is fun! I hit the end and spin around, zooming back.
I prepare myself for a final ride before returning to motherhood, practice pick-up, and an erectly adult perspective on the world.
That voice again: “Close your eyes.”
Sure thing. I got this. I can do full-frontal surrender. Give me my medicine.
I close my eyes and set off straight. My body starts turning, my limbs creating one long line in the early evening air. Will my legs hit the frame, banging my calves into bruised submission? I’m scared. I peek, righting myself. Back in control.
That voice, though—it’s not done with me yet. “Walk to the start. This time eyes closed the entire ride.”
This is it. I’ve got it. I can keep my eyes closed. I can navigate the unknown—the perilous is only in my imagination. Fear is made up. Mind rubble.
Eyes closed. Hands on rope. Ass on swing. Feet lifting off ground. I am suspended. I am air. I am surrender. I am life in movement. I am free. I am joy. I am—on the ground.
Without knowing when the ending was coming, I lost my grip and was thrown off when the point of (no) return arrived. I am laying on the ground, shocked, embarrassed, confused. Well, no biggie, until…
I turn and see a pack of 13-year-old boys jogging past, their tauntingly eyes upon me. A wild pack of testosterone-fueled youngsters laughing at my pathetic perimenopausal body sprawled on the ground in a kids’ playground. On my own. I pick myself up quickly, dust off, and jog in the other direction.
Until I stop. Jogging, that is. Until I stop. Running, that is. Until I stop being ashamed of exactly who I am and how I am. Right now.
I turn around. I smile softly in the direction of the boys. I walk back to the zip line. I pull it to the start. I hop on, lean back, and close my eyes.
I surrender again. I know the risks, and I know that I can meet them.
I can fall and be seen falling.
I can suffer and be seen suffering.
I can become someone new and be seen before I’m complete, all bloody and half-assed in the cocoon.
I can ride a zip line in a kids’ park on a Tuesday evening with my eyes closed. The entire time. And be returned to where I started, stronger than when I left.
And so can you.
And so can we.
I love you. It’s true.
