Last month, it was my husband's birthday. When he was growing up in China, his family celebrated this annual event by cooking an egg for him. And, although I tried this once (thinking it would bring back special memories), it somehow didn't feel festive enough. Still, he's never latched onto the cake-and-party thing. So, this year, we tried something different. We went camping.
Our children asked if they could each bring a friend. (They're into the cake-and-party thing) But, as is the norm with our kids, they thought of this great idea at the very last minute, and only my eldest daughter--through great persistence--was able to find someone. She fournd a friend who, I must point out, was not my typical image of a camper; but more the friend I'd call if I needed advice on a hair stylist. In fact, on the way there, she admitted that she'd never really been camping, and was afraid of spiders.
We had a site by the river, which meant we could hear the water rushing by. The river was really high, the rapids fast and furious. Thinking we would just take it easy, my husband and I took our chairs and went down to sit by the water. It was fantastic. This was the life.
Not according to the children. They were ready to "do something", like go up to the gorge. To get to the gorge, we had to climb up over boulders about a mile. My stomach was lodged in my throat the entire time, as pieces of my heart--my children-- hopped over rocks as though they were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, not jumping over the fast and furious river.
I felt like a noisy puppy, yelping out --"Be careful. Take it slow. Hold my hand."
At one point, we had to cross the rushing rapids. To do so, we scaled a huge rock--a rock that I will remember forever--and then slide down it--slowly--stretching our legs out as far as we could to reach out across the rapids. The kids jumped over, no problem. Then, my husband went. He slipped--once, twice. The third time he made it. I kept thinking, "If he's having a tough time, I'll never make it."
But, the whole gang hauled me across. What a relief--to be across the river.
We spent the afternoon at the top of the gorge. But, when my four-year-old wanted to climb up to the top of a cliff and jump into the icy water, like the big kids, I decided it was time to go back to the campsite. We'd had enough adventure for the day. Little did I know, it had just begun.
On the way back, my eldest son lead the way down. He took a different--more challenging route. Instead of crossing the rapids just at one point, he took a path where you had to cross three times, three possibly slippery boulders . My eldest daughter and her friend followed. I stood frozen to my spot, worrying about these three musketeers, worrying about my little guys who were eager to get back to camp now, as they were cold, and worrying about how we were going to cross that one point again. I was so full of worry, I thought I'd explode.
As each of the three musketeers crossed, I cheered. When they were all across, tears sprung to my eyes. Then, I noticed they were headed for a dead end. There was no way to get from where they were to the safety of the boulders leading down to the campsite without swimming in a big pool of fast-rushing water. They could all swim--but what if the water was too fast? What if it was full of sharp rocks that banged them around, sent them tumbling? The thought of them going back over the three crossings made me sick to my stomach. What I saw made me even sicker.
My son started across the straight face of a cliff overhanging the big pool of fast-rushing water. What was he thinking? My daughter and her friend followed. I thought I'd vomit.
My son made it across. My daughter made it across. I was just breathing a sigh of relief--they were all going to make it--when I realized I was going to have to get my little guys across. I heard screaming. It wasn't just my inner nervous puppy having a breakdown. It was the third musketeer--my daughter's friend.
She was going to fall. She'd be tumbled over every boulder between the gorge and the campsite, gasping for air when she could. There was no way we could stop her.
"Hang on," I called.
She grasped onto the wall, but shook one of her feet, as if doing a dance.
"What's she doing," I asked my husband.
She screamed again, brushing something with her hand.
My husband left us and crossed over to see what he could do. By this point, the third musketeer was trying to back her way off the rock, her face white.
"Come on, " my husband urged. "You can do it."
She stuck her foot out to start to cross, then pulled back. Stuck her foot out, then pulled back. She was so close. Finally, my son scaled the wall, again, and went to within inches of her, held out his hand. Brushed something off the wall.
Spiders.
With everyone's encouragement, and my son as the spider police, she made it across.
Thank the heavens.
Now, it was my turn. I swung my little guys across the rapids, then I put my foot in the water, reached over the rapids to step on the rock on the other side and slipped. Down I went into the rushing waters. The icy water sucked the air out of me. Here was my nightmare unfolding before me. I would be tumbled and knocked unconscious. If I was lucky somewhere downstream, someone would pull me out.
Strong arms pulled me out before the nightmare went too far. My husband. He pulled me back up and over the rapids.
"You okay?"
"I've had enough," I said. I'd been jumping, trying to catch pieces of my heart, all day long. And, now this. What was celebrative about this? I was trembling from head to toe.
"All you have to do is climb up and over the boulder," My husband coached. "Then, we're homefree."
I didn't want to move. Maybe, I could just stay on this rock until the trembling subsided.
"Take a deep breath. Take it easy. Take it slow. One step at a time."
Later, back at camp, still quaking, I asked my son, "Why did you take that path? What had you planned to do if you fell?"
"I didn't plan to fall," he said. He gave me a look, and I got the message: "You did--and look what happened."
Lately, I've thought of that trip to the gorge many times. I learned a lot about myself that trip. I learned that eggs for a birthday aren't such a bad idea. That, and maybe getting your hair done. But, most importantly, when I start to get overwhelmed with my writing project--all the rewrites, the letters, the summaries, the self-promotion, the raw nakedness of it all--when I get so overwhelmed I feel dizzy, as if I'm looking over the rushing rapids, as if I'm surrounded by spiders, crawling up my arms and legs, I remember to take a deep breath.
Take it easy .
Take it slow.
Take it one step at a time.
Remember, you're not planning to fall.