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Sparkle (1)
Last week I called the instructor at the local Ropes Course. We were set to attend with our homeschool group in a few days, and I realized that although it may be interesting to watch the older kids climb, zip and whirl, it'd be more fun if my two oldest could participate fully.
The answer I got: The harnesses can be fit on very young children. It's more about their personal will and interest.
So, we woke early a few days later, tossed our picnic in the car, and drove as we talked. Pippi Longstocking walking the telephone lines. Circus tight ropes. Climbing trees and fences. And when we arrived to this place at the forests' edge, we spent the next few hours doing some great team-building games.
Now, I say "we" because I at the last minute decided to participate.
My first thought upon hearing about the course: No Way.
My second thought: Maybe I should since my first thought was so fiercely guarded.
So I decided to give it a go. Perhaps I would surpass my fear of heights once and for all. Perhaps.
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The day progressed, the mosquitoes heartily nibbled at our bare arms, and working together, we supported one another on a vertical pull-up. I traveled higher from the ground than I have in over a decade. And it was exciting, exasperating and numbing. I honestly blanked out from vertigo, as I can barely remember what it looked like from way up high. (And silly enough, my brother's a lineman. I think he stole all the climbing-genes in the family.)
Next we watched the other group of kids as they attempted the Redwood Tree and zip line. And I watched my girls as they watched the action, wondering where their personal peaks would take them for the day, as I knew I had reached mine with the vertical pull-up.
It was interesting to see how some kids scurried up the Redwood in seconds while others struggled with placement, trust and movement. And those who made it up always came down zip line style, flying through the forest like a dragonfly darting to its next pool of water. And me, well I decided that my vertigo was and is simply a danger to me.
And then, while we sat there on the forest floor, a four-year-old girl began climbing the ladder. And when she reached the tree, she just kept going. It was the perfect visual reminder of what complete trust in oneself and one's body looks like. It's a beautiful thing. And within minutes she was way up high above our heads getting tied to the zip line. We were all so surprised. Awestruck. Dude, challenge has no limits besides the ones we set. And a moment later she stepped off the platform and went whizzing into the forest. And by the time she was safely climbing down the ladder my oldest was ready to have a turn at the Redwood.
So we set off to the tree, my camera in hand, and my oldest began her climb. And I quickly snapped photos for her to see her success, whatever it may be. And although I trusted her abilities, I fully expected her to climb to the top of the ladder and then right back down. And as she climbed we talked with her gently about the climbing process. Helping her navigate and choose her steps and approach.
But after reaching the top of the ladder, she keeps going. And about half way up the tree she realizes what she's done. She's climbing a tree she's not sure if she can actually climb. And she freaks. And my heart starts thumping really hard. And her Papa's calm composure starts to look a bit worried. We squirm as her panic sets in.
And our worry stems not from her ability or inability to conquer that tree. Our worry stems from the knowledge of fear and what it can wreak on the mind and body. And not just as a mental game. No siree. I'm talking about how fear can literally stop you in your tracks, render you useless and void, and make you tremble. Turn. Lose sight of everything around you.
So
