365 Summits

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Joys and Sorrows: TA's Weekly Update 12-13-09

Good Icy Cold Morning to You,

The combination of minus 45 degrees C and ice fog this morning at the Edmonton International Airport means we're spending an additional day here. Our flight was cancelled and given big travel volumes, we couldn't be rebooked until tomorrow. You should have seen the look on Mom's face when we rang the doorbell and handed her the morning paper after she'd dropped us off at the airport at 5:00 a.m. "Surprise, we're back," we exclaimed. I was looking forward to being home and getting back into a training routine but as Oma so frequently says, "What comes, comes."

Last Sunday I had the great pleasure of joining Xander on the ice for his hockey practice. I loved being out there with him and perhaps today's delay will allow me another visit to the arena when his plays again today. On Friday, I visited Rayne's school again. This time, not to speak about climbing but instead, about the carrying the Olympic Torch. I spoke to the elementary school in two groups–at first I wasn't sure I could muster the energy but as soon as I saw the children's faces light up at seeing the Torch, I knew I could do it. I even had the kids in stitches at one point when I climbed up on a table to demonstrate my luge technique (I had had a great brainstorm in 1986 that I would make the Olympic Luge team in time for the Calgary winter games–unfortunately, early in my sledding career, I ran my luge off the track and busted up my knee pretty darn good when I hit a tree and that was the end of that!)

In the homily of my Dad's funeral mass, Father Reddy counseled us that this would be a time of great joy and great sorrow and that has been true to my experience of the past week. After Dad's passing, we continued to tell fun and memorable stories of Dad's life throughout the week. I'm really grateful to the group of my brother's friends who gathered from around Western Canada to support him and who pulled off a spontaneous celebration of Dad's life after the prayer service on Wednesday. It was marvelous to share in such deep laughter and appreciation of my Dad after the intense grief of the prayer service.

Special thanks to Todd and Shelley for the impromptu feast and for Sean's delightful rendition of learning to waterski under my Dad's watchful eye. Thanks as well to Dave Fritz for feeding us all twice during the week, Doris and her Mom for the German feast that evoked so many memories, Shawn's Mom and Dad for wonderful baked goods and watching the kids, and "Uncle Bart" for his kindness and care to all of us.

Father Reddy had asked for a copy of my eulogy so he could know a bit more about my Dad since he had just recently moved to their parish. I so appreciated how Father Reddy wove together the readings, his homily, and the essence of Dad's spirit into a beautiful liturgy to send him off to whatever comes next. The highlight of the mass for me is when, in honour of Dad's great sense of humour, Father Reddy told a joke. It may have been the first time I heard a priest tell a joke in church and it was so fitting of my Dad. Special thanks to Monica and Heidi for reading at both services and to Todd, Mike, Derwyn, Cam, Gerry, and Brian for being pallbearers. Your participation in honouring Dad was much appreciated.

One of the things that speaking professionally has taught me, is to allow a presentation to ebb and flow like the tide. I know when I am speaking that some of the topics are highly emotionally charged and I need to allow pause or humour to allow myself time to compose myself to continue. When I first said I would do Dad's eulogy, I wondered if first I would find the words and second, once found, if I would be able to speak them.

Over the course of three early mornings, the words did come. As you will see below in my Dad's eulogy, he always believed in me and I wrote a reminder of that right into it so that if I was struggling to speak, I would remember that my Dad's many reminders that I could do it. And I did do it, twice–once during the prayer service and once at the funeral. My voice got stronger and gained power as I spoke reaching a crescendo in the last paragraph until the last lines. Saying the good-bye, the parting, the letting the reality of the loss sink in by speaking those words aloud…brought a tsunami of grief to the surface and almost overwhelmed my ability to enunciate the sentiment but I held on for dear life, for my dear Dad, and got through the words with my voice cracking, tears streaming down my face, and my heart open.

Good Morning

On behalf of mother Denise, my Oma, Frida, my brother, Mike and myself, I would like to thank you deeply for your being here with us today to both share our grief at the loss of Heinz and to celebrate his life and the gifts he gave us all.

One of the greatest gifts that my father gave me, and to so many others, was his belief in me. Every spring at his beloved lake and cabin, Dad would orchestrate the putting in of the pier and boat hoist. Most often, all of the male neighbours would gather to help each other to move these very heavy objects from the land into the water. When I was about ten or eleven, I was helping Dad get the pier project started. He and I were lifting the pier sections from their storage location to the lakeshore. As the neighbours began to arrive, they each in turn, tried to come over and take the burden from me. Each time Dad said, "Leave it to her, she can do it." So since then, at times in my life when I may have doubted whether or not I could do something, like right now perhaps, I hear my Dad's voice, "She can do it."

I have heard it said that the mediocre teacher tells, the good teacher explains, the superior teacher demonstrates and the great teacher inspires. Without every setting foot at the front of a classroom, my father was a great teacher. He taught so many people, so many things: from how to drive a stick shift, to casting lead bullets, to getting up on water skis, to how to fix most anything. His "students" ranged from the "boys" at the shop to our childhood friends; from the neighbours at the lake to anyone he shared a chairlift with. His generous spirit spilled forth to both help and teach at the slightest perception of need.

After surviving World War II in the Sudenland region of Czechoslovakia, Heinz and his parents, Frida and Alois, immigrated to Canada and settled in Good Soil, Saskatchewan. Dad often told stories from his life on the farm; of the magpie he befriended that would steal the tractor keys and hide them, of the horse he loved and tended to, and of course, his long walk to school. Unlike many Canadian kids who heard similar tales, my dad and his cousins Monica and Heidi really did walk seven miles through snowstorms to their school.

My Dad and his parents moved to Edmonton in time for Dad to attend high school at St. Mary's. Here, his stories continued. We heard of sporting feats, fast cars, and pranks played on teachers and friends alike. Dad met Mom as a substitute blind date set up by her older brother, Gerry. After a delightful courtship, they were married in 1964. Mom said the other day that perhaps Dad was always early for everything, because she was an hour late for the wedding.

Soon after I was born, Mom and Dad moved to Ottewell. In this neighbourhood of young families, they met some of their lifelong friends. Out of this connection, Dad and Manfred Springer began to go hunting together. Over the years, we watched them pack up their vans, trailers, campers, or RV's–whatever the hunting accommodation de jour was–with their guns, supplies, and scrumptious hunting fare known as "Fantasy Casserole" that often came from Dad's skillful mixing of several cans of food. A week or so later, they would emerge from the bush surrounding Whitecourt with many stories, a few "chickens" as Dad would call grouse, but not very often with big game. After years of watching this phenomena, Mike and Shawn began to call these so called hunting trips, "Camping with Guns." When Shawn killed her first chicken, Dad stood by and coached her through the whole process of cleaning it, despite many of the men wanting to jump in and take it from her.

My Dad loved nothing better than to be outdoors and especially to spend time around a bonfire. Both while hunting and at the lake, most evenings were spent nursing a drink, telling tall tales, and a joke or two with whoever was gathered around the warmth of the community fire. Come to think about it, make that ten or twenty jokes. Dad loved to make people laugh and kept a huge repository of jokes in his steel-trap mind–he never forgot a thing.

My Mom called Dad, her "Walking Encyclopedia." We all quickly learned never to get in an argument with Heinz–he always won–especially if it had to do with what happened when. I'm not sure when we all discovered the source of his amazing memory. He wrote daily in a notebook, keeping track of the weather and significant events of the day. Dad was an avid, voracious reader with an insatiable curiosity for how things worked. He was a gifted engineer who could repair anything given a supply of duct tape, tie-wraps, Velcro, and GE Sealant.

My Dad had a special place in his heart for animals. He hated to see them suffer and always helped care for all the strays my brother and I brought home. He had a special bond with our cat, Pudd, and an even deeper connection with Bear, his beloved Akita. Despite all of the pain he suffered from the cancer, I suspect the worse day of my dad's life was when he lost Bear. I imagine Bear was waiting to greet Dad with his two huge paws on Dad's chest.

Life dealt Dad several blows in short order. He lost Bear, he and mom were both diagnosed with cancer, and his father passed away all within a couple of years. Many would have folded and left their cards on the table. Not my father. He faced the challenges and suffering of the past twelve years with grace, courage, and humour. Dad demonstrated a seasoned ability to live with uncertainty and to go forward each day, not knowing what it would bring. He took early retirement, continued to pursue the things he loved to do, researched options, and put up with the many side effects of his cancer treatment. He lived life as fully as he could and inspired us in how he coped with the tremendous pain of his illness. Dad also broke the silence around prostate cancer by encouraging every man he knew to get tested. He saved many lives by being brave enough to talk about his cancer.

Along with hunting, Dad loved to ski. Starting on the small hills surrounding the farm in Saskatchewan and progressing to the huge drops of Sunshine Village in Banff, Dad's passion was for the slopes. He shared his passion by teaching Mom, Mike, myself, and many others to ski. He always counted the days to his annual ski week with Mom, Manfred and Agnes. The day that Dad died, the first winter storm of 2009 raged outside. When Mike and I met at the hospital that day, we looked out at the falling snow and thought Dad picked the perfect day to go. We took comfort picturing him carving turns in endless fresh powder under crystal blue skies and sunshine knowing his favourite meal would be waiting in heaven's cafeteria.

I believe that the true measure of our worth is not where we come to be at journey's end, but in the lives we touch along the way. I know both personally and by looking out at all of you gathered here, that we have all been deeply touched by Heinz as a husband, son, father, opa, friend, and teacher. Heinz's courage in living the past decade with a devastating disease, his generosity and acts of kindness, his contagious laugh and sense of humour, and most of all, his love for his family, will never be forgotten. Dad, I am so glad you are now free of pain–rest in peace–we all miss you dearly.

Thanks to all of you in my cyber community of support for sending caring thoughts and prayers. We've felt your support and leaned on it many times. I look forward to seeing friends in Newfoundland soon (whenever Air Canada can get us there) and I am committed to taking my training for Everest to a new height of dedication to both honour and be close in spirit to my dad. See you in a gym nearby soon!

With gratitude,

--

*******************************************************************************
Everest 2010: Mountain of Learning

Please support the Everest 2010: Mountain of Learning Award at Memorial University of Newfoundland.

Visit the Memorial website at the following URL: https://www5.mun.ca/dir/viking.gv020.p001
and be sure to click the button for the award.

TA Loeffler Ph.D., Professor
3M National Teaching Fellow
School of Human Kinetics and Recreation
Memorial University of Newfoundland
St. John's, NL A1C 5S7

TA's Website: www.taloeffler.com
Phone: 709-737-8670
Fax: 709-737-3979
Office: PE 2011A
Email Office: taloeffler@mun.ca
Email Home: taloeffler@gmail.com

Those who lose dreaming are lost.
Australian Aboriginal Proverb

Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things; Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear the sound of wings.
Amelia Earhart

Remember that the most difficult tasks are consummated not by a single burst of energy or effort, but by consistent application of the best you have within you.
Og Mandino
*******************************************************************************

Monday, December 7, 2009

Off to Powder Ski Slopes: TA's Weekly Update 12-7-09

Good Morning,

I'm up early to write from a different chair. It's been a big week on the metaphorical mountain and I know forming and sharing the words will help me reflect and process the deeper meaning of it all.

People had said I would know when it was time to come. I was checking in several times a day with Edmonton, watching airfares, trying to train, and seeing how Marian was doing. Dad moved onto the palliative care unit at the Grey Nuns Hospital on Sunday. Mom used to be the night supervisor there for 20 years and though it meant a longer drive to get there, she knew Dad would receive the best care.

And then as people said I would, I knew it was time. We got seats on a most windy Wednesday morning and flew out. Shawn picked us up at the airport and we went right to the hospital. When we walked into his room, Dad woke and was able to greet us. He was finally comfortable when lying still and would rouse when called to but was sleeping the rest of the time.

Soon after we arrived, a succession of visitors arrived and we spent much of the afternoon telling stories of Dad's life and the ways he impacted ours. There was many stories of hunting, skiing, and times at the cabin. One of Dad's favourite things was napping on the couch at the lake and I imagined him laying on "his" couch napping as we spun yarn after yarn. Later in the afternoon, Rayne came to visit and helped the nurse give her grandfather his medication and got a chance to ask lots of questions about Opa's care.

Wednesday was hard but I took solace in being surrounded by caring friends and family and in the fact that laughter was being doled out in about the same ratio as tears. We were celebrating my Dad, and since he loved to laugh, naturally many of the stories made us chuckle. We met with Dad's doctors and though they couldn't give us a timeline, they hinted at a few weeks. Having started our day in Newfoundland at 3:30 a.m., we fell into bed exhausted that evening.

The next morning we headed back to the hospital. As soon as I walked into the room, I knew things had changed dramatically. In taking one look at my Dad, I knew it wouldn't be weeks, I knew it would be days, if that. Dread was the first emotion to arise followed quickly by huge waves of grief. Seeing the nurse do care and the intense pain that any movement caused Dad, a tiny sense of relief that his suffering might soon be over began to enter my body.

I had brought my Olympic Torch to show my Dad. In the elevator, some one had asked me if the box contained chocolates. I said, "No, it has an Olympic Torch." I took it out of the box and once again witnessed its magic as people began to hold it and pass it around. I showed it to Dad as soon as I arrived and there was a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes. I placed it on the windowsill and we enjoyed watching nurses, doctors, and visitors as they picked it up and hold the torch. As I carried it on Mom and Dad's anniversary, it felt like a tribute to have the torch there.

Dad's main doctor, Dr. Amigo, paid a special visit so I could show him the torch. He carried it out onto the unit and joked that his ego was getting bigger by the second. He was originally from Argentina so we shared our love of Dulce de Leche and I showed him pictures of climbing Aconcagua on my laptop. I appreciated Dr. Amigo taking time to be with us with such kindness and grace–not only was he looking after Dad, he was looking after us. It seemed he had "right livelihood" being perfectly suited in skill and temperament to the work he does and I loved his name. Amigo means friend in Spanish and he was indeed, a doctor friend.

As the day progressed, Dad could no longer respond or wake up. He slipped deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. In July, I carried a string of prayer flags to the summit of Mount Elbrus for both my Dad and Moh Hardin, my Buddhist teacher. In celebration of this, I hung a string of prayer flags over Dad's bed and took comfort in seeing their familiar colours and having them remind me of Buddhist teachings. They also provided another point of conversation and it turned out that one of Dad's nurses had worked in Tibet. Small world.

The hospital gift shop had "puffed wheat squares." These chocolate confections are one of my favourite treats as well as Dad's. I bought some and brought them up to the room. I wished that just one more time Dad and I could compete for the last bite. It wasn't uncommon for Mom to have to make one tray for my Dad and one for me. I was comfortable talking to my Dad even though he couldn't respond. I offered him some puff wheat squares and told him that I would keep eating them and would miss sharing them with him.

We spent the day in prayer punctuated by stories. Again, when visitors would come, we shared memories of Dad and used laughter to temper our grief. It was harder to leave the hospital that night and I contemplated staying over. We asked the nurses to call us if anything changed and we'd be back as quick as we could.

The call came the next morning. We all headed quickly to the hospital. It was snowing heavily. Mom, Marian and I arrived first. Seeing Dad, we knew it wouldn't be long. When Mike and Shawn arrived, both Mike and I had had the same thought. Dad loved to ski and this was a perfect day to go. Each time I looked out the window, I imagined Dad standing at the top of his favourite run in Banff just waiting for enough perfect powder to fall to begin his run.

We all sat round him. He was no longer in any pain and for the first time in days, we could touch him (previously the lightest touch was agony for him). Again, we told stories and memories and laughter was once again mixed with the tears. I had promised Rayne I would take a picture of something on the unit but had forgotten the camera in the car. I didn't want to leave but knew I didn't want to miss getting the picture for Rayne so I let Dad know I was stepping out and quickly went to the car. I stopped in the gift shop for more puffed wheat squares.

I got back to Dad's room and took the picture Rayne wanted. A sense came over me and I turned, put the camera down, and saw down beside my Dad. I offered the puffed wheat squares round and most indulged–Dad loved them. We surrounded Dad with love and care and he passed gently at 12:34. Those that know me know that my watch beeps everyday at 12:34. It is my favourite time of day…1, 2, 3, 4! I just get a kick out of it and don't want to miss it so I set an alarm. It was just like my Dad to pick such a moment to go. I know that each day when the alarm beeps, not only will I chuckle with my favourite time of day, I'll think of my Dad and everything he means to me.

Once the first round of tears had fallen, we took out a small bottle of whiskey that Dad hadn't gotten to drink and passed it around. We told Dad that we must really love him to drink the rye straight up without mix. Dr. Amigo came in and offered words of comfort that though Dad went quicker than anyone expected, he was now finally free of pain. With his words, came a huge sense of relief for me that has carried me through the first few days since Dad's death. Near the end, he hurt so much that I could hardly stand it and I am so grateful that he suffering is over. I knew I would miss him so much but I wanted him pain free even more.

We each took time to say our good-byes. I took the prayer flags down knowing that they would come with me to Everest and hang in my tent as both a reminder of my Dad and a reminder of his strength that I can draw upon whenever needed. We packed the rest of Dad's belongings and I drove us home through the storm. The rest of that day was a fog of funeral arrangements, logistics, and alternating relief and disbelief.

We all dreaded telling Oma, my Dad's mother for we know she'd loved him so deeply for all of his 67 years. She'd had a dream earlier in the day that Dad had died and sobbed uncontrollably for the first while. We then got out her brandy and toasted Dad once again. With glasses in hand, the stories began again and Oma had us nearly peeing our pants with her antics. I appreciated the laughter as it helps balance out the deep sadness.

Since most of you live away from Edmonton and won't be able to see Dad's Obituary, I've pasted it here.

Heinz Loeffler, aged 67 years, passed away peacefully surrounded by his family on December 4, 2009. He is survived by his loving wife, Denise, his mother, Frida and two children, TA (Marian), and Mike (Shawn). Heinz also leaves to mourn two grandchildren, Rayne and Xander and numerous other relatives and close friends. He was predeceased by his father, Alois and Uncle Joe and Auntie Hilde. A prayer service will be held on Wednesday, December 9, 2009 at 7:00 p.m. at the Chapel of Howard & McBride Westlawn, 16310 Stony Plain Road, Edmonton with a Funeral Mass on Thursday, December 10 at 11:00 a.m. at Good Shepherd Catholic Church, 18407-60 Ave, Edmonton. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Prostate Cancer Canada, (145 Front Street East, Suite 306 Toronto Ontario M5A 1E3 http://www.prostatecancer.ca) or the Grey Nuns Community Hospital, Palliative Care Unit 43. Heinz's family thanks you for your care and support during this difficult time.

Thank you for all of your kind words, thoughts, and prayers as they bring great comfort to my family and me. Take good care,

Sunday, November 29, 2009

A New Elevation: TA's Weekly Update Nov. 29, 2009

Good Morning,

When climbing a high altitude peak, we don't just climb it once. We climb it at least twice, perhaps three of four times. In order to acclimatize properly, mountaineers use a strategy of "Climb High, Sleep Low." To climb a new altitude, we first do a day trip to that elevation–we might carry of load of supplies–or we may just climb up to introduce our bodies to the new height. This introduction sets off complex physiologic processes that eventually change the composition of our blood to enable us to survive in an ever-decreasing oxygen environment. After one or two excursions to a new elevation, we break down camp and move to the new one.

I always seem to dread the second climb–perhaps because I have seen and climbed the route and know what difficulties lie ahead. I know how hard I will have to breathe and how challenging some sections will be to surmount. And then I am always surprised that the second time through is always easier because I know what's coming, I have markers to use along the climb to measure progress, and I am a wee bit more acclimatized than the first go.

Arriving at the new camp, there is always much work to do: tent platforms and kitchens must be dug, tents erected, and snow melted into drinking water. Doing these tasks at a new elevation is always humbling. Move too fast and you're instantly breathless and panting. Imagine being a bit drunk or tipsy while already feeling the next day's hangover, feeling deeply chilled overall with really cold feet and hands, being able to move two shovelfuls of snow and then having to lean over your shovel out of breath, then having to swing your legs to make the blood go back to your toes through centrifugal force, then having to catch your breath again, then shoveling again, then feeling a bit dizzy and unsteady, then swinging your arms to bring blood to your hands, shoveling a bit more. Repeat the above for four hours while really wanting to curl up into a ball in the snow.

Earlier this week, when it became clear that my Dad's battle with prostate cancer would likely end very soon; I was thrust instantly into a high elevation environment that I wasn't acclimatized to. Instantaneously, my heart could not beat hard enough or deep enough to move the mountain of emotion through, my lungs couldn't take in enough to air to stave off the suffocating grief, and my head rushed with both dizziness and confusion. Though I have climbed through grief along with my Dad over the past eleven years the best I could, this is a new and gripping elevation that has stopped me cold.

One of the things that you must quickly learn at high altitude is to move slowly. When sitting down, it's easy to forget how stressed your body is because it can keep up with the demands when you are not moving. Stand up quickly and take a few quick steps and the feedback is swift. So too this week, I learned that grief is an invitation to move very slowly. Like acclimatization, it is a slow process that cannot be rushed or forced and I must climb through it step by step. The route is new to me and I don't know the markers along the way. The snow is deep overwhelming and at times, I am pitched forward onto my face when my foot drops into a posthole. The visibility is poor, making it difficult to see both the route and my teammates.

I know enough to follow the rope in front of me, to try to step in the footprints that others have left, to take breaks, and to trust that I will get new views as I climb higher. This is a climb that there is no turning back from. I can't call it off because of bad weather or risky conditions. I can't stop it. I can only climb it as best as I can, knowing there will be avalanches of emotion along the entire route. I can't avoid these pounding white waves that pummel me with loss and deep sadness at frequent, seemingly random intervals, triggered by invisibly, falling from their high perches to bury me.

I can only traverse this terrain with care and cherish the memories and profound inspiration that my Dad has given me from the moment I was born…to speaking on the phone with him just the other night. My Buddhist path has taught me that it is possible to synchronously do two paradoxical things at once if I can and grasp that duality doesn't exist–I must simultaneously hold onto the rope that ties my Dad and I together while at the same time, prepare to take him off-belay. This will be the toughest climb of my life thus far and Marian and I will be heading to Edmonton soon to join my family.

Thanks to all who sent get wishes to Marian this week. She's recovering very well and I'm very grateful since that means she will be able to travel with me. We shared a quiet week where she rested at home and I made short forays into the world to train and receive athletic therapy. Todd Row at Allied Health Services has been helping to get my patellar tendonitis to settle down.

Ironically, one of Todd's recommendations is that I need to stretch more (of the five areas of fitness–flexibility is my least favourite). I guess the universe these days wants to stretch me both physically and emotionally. The other day I described myself as feeling like lately I'd been shredded on the cheese grater of life. It's always good when my sense of humour rises to the top of the coping strategies list. It's one of my best and one I learned from my Dad–he loves to laugh, joke, and often knows just how to make someone more comfortable by making fun of himself. I inherited my funny bone from him.

I appreciate all of the support Marian and I have received over the past few weeks and I'll ask that you continue to reach out as the mountain suddenly seems even steeper now. Please keep my entire family in your thoughts and prayers. Have a good week and take care.

With gratitude to you,

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Everest 2010: Mountain of Learning

Please support the Everest 2010: Mountain of Learning Award at Memorial University of Newfoundland.

Visit the Memorial website at the following URL: https://www5.mun.ca/dir/viking.gv020.p001
and be sure to click the button for the award.

TA Loeffler Ph.D., Professor
3M National Teaching Fellow
School of Human Kinetics and Recreation
Memorial University of Newfoundland
St. John's, NL A1C 5S7

TA's Website: www.taloeffler.com
Phone: 709-737-8670
Fax: 709-737-3979
Office: PE 2011A
Email Office: taloeffler@mun.ca
Email Home: taloeffler@gmail.com

Those who lose dreaming are lost.
Australian Aboriginal Proverb

Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things; Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear the sound of wings.
Amelia Earhart

Remember that the most difficult tasks are consummated not by a single burst of energy or effort, but by consistent application of the best you have within you.
Og Mandino
*******************************************************************************

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Down River: TA's Weekly Update Nov. 22, 2009

Happy US Thanksgiving!

As I look forward to this week, where my friends south of the 49^th parallel will be celebrating Thanksgiving, I am thankful that last week went as well as it could have and that Marian came through surgery like a trooper, is home now, and is on the road to recovery. After last week's road metaphor (thanks to all for the kind feedback), I turn this week to the metaphor of a river. Actually a specific river, the Colorado, through a specific place, the Grand Canyon, to make sense and meaning of the experience called "last week." I wrote at some point each day to reflect, process, and deal with the huge waves of emotion that poured over me regularly.

Nov. 16, 2009

Last spring, Marian and I rafted the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. It was a 226-mile journey through one of my favourite places on earth and it was such a joy to share it with her. As we prepared ourselves for her surgery, I was in search (as I always am) of a guiding metaphor. Very quickly, the memories of the Colorado River surfaced and provided a frame for the feelings that were engulfing us.

Rapids on the Colorado are graded from one to ten based on their difficulty and level of risk. Before most rapids of eight or above, we would stop and scout the rapid from shore. We'd look for big rocks, hydraulic water features, and standing waves with an eye to find the best line to the bottom of the rapid. At the top of every rapid is the "V"–the water pours through the rocks at the top and makes a V shaped trough that you aim to put your raft down the middle of. As you drop down the V, you pull left or right or ride it right down the middle.

The jury is out about how much you can really influence the movement of the boat once you are in the rapid. Usually, the key is in the set-up…if you get the boat to the best place, you'll get through. As we neared Lava Falls, the largest drop on the river, we read the description in the guidebook, "Enter the V on the mid right and begin to pull hard to the left. Attempt to pull over the large standing waves and avoid the huge pillow rock at the bottom on river right. Don't worry in twenty seconds it will be over either way–you'll either be upright or you won't."

The description was oddly comforting knowing that the experience (like everything else) would pass and be done shortly. At the top of the rapid, the water pools a bit and seems to slow. I wondered if we would ever get to the rapid and the thundering pulse of my heart competed with the cacophonous roar of the impending drop. Then suddenly, the current caught us and the boat began to slide down into the rapid–there was no turning back then–just trust and pull. Breathe and hold on. Twenty seconds of intense, intense living. My memories of the rapid are a blurring blend of adrenaline and roller coaster–we did manage to go up on the pillow rock but slid harmlessly off and cheered wildly at being upright at the bottom of Lava!

In the days before her surgery, both Marian and I drew on the idea of setting up for the rapid. We did everything we knew to bring her strength up, to set up a great health care team, and to get the house ready for her recovery time. Despite the large waves of emotion that rolled over and through us, we kept working to see the way through the cataract, memorize the line, and then position the boat at the top of the V.

I'm sitting in the waiting room as I type this knowing that Marian is now in the rapid–there is no pulling the boat back up river–she must ride it out. I'm standing on the shore with throw line in hand and trusting that in a few hours, the rapid will be over and we'll reunite at the bottom of the chasm. This morning as I sat with her, I recognized that the same thundering herd of butterflies from the Grand Canyon had once again taken up residence in my belly and I took solace in recognizing the familiarity of the sensations. We got through the Colorado upright and all right, and I'm tied to that hope today as well.

Standing here on "the shore", I've put my proverbial foot in the shoes of those who love and care about me and have a visceral sense of what it must be like when I head up into the risks of the high altitude environment. I'm filled with empathy of how hard it is to sit and wait and pray that no harm comes to a loved one. I knew it before, but today I am reminded of it on a deep, deep level. In feeling this, I am also committing to doing everything I can to stack the odds in my favour, prepare well, make good decisions, and position my boat in the best possible way on the Everest V wave.

Nov. 17, 2009

Of the hundreds of rapids on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, there are two that are feared the most: Lava Falls and Crystal. Crystal comes relatively early in the trip just past Phantom Ranch. It's a teeming monster of white water with several boat-eating holes to navigate around. The first time I rowed the Grand, I took one look at Crystal and decided I would walk around it. One of my teammates rowed my boat through and I shot video for the crew. On my second canyon trip, I was rowing well, lead boat, and ready to attempt Crystal. We arrived at scout and the water was low (because of the Glen Canyon dam and fluctuating energy needs, the Colorado River has a tide).

The low water meant that the run on river left that squirted the first massive hole was available. We had someone on the team who'd flipped a boat in Crystal before. He wanted to watch a guided team go through. Then a private group. Then another commercial group. By then, the water had risen and the door to the left run was slammed shut. We re-scouted for the right hand run which required rowing backward across the V wave to spin and miss the first hole. I wasn't at all psyched for the run and hated (at that point) to enter rapids backwards. With heavy heart, I pushed off into the river with Liz riding on my front pontoon like a rodeo rider on a bucking bronco.

I set my boat up and began to pull hard across the V. The enormous rush of current grabbed the boat and we shot off like a rocket. I pulled and pulled but not hard enough. We got dragged down the V and didn't have enough momentum to break the large standing V wave. In an instant, we cascaded right down into the maw of that first hole. The force of the water threw the stern into the air and the boat catapulted over itself throwing both Liz and I into the mercy of the river. After a thrashing in the hole, I surfaced and caught a lung-full of air and realized the boat was out of reach to grab. I was forced to swim the kilometer long rapid without the extra floatation of the raft.

Liz surfaced nearby and grabbed my PFD. We were instantly swept into the next gigantic hole and thrown violently to the river's bottom. Fortunately we weren't imprisoned by the hole's hydraulics and soon were careening towards the third hole. That one flushed us through and now only the "bone-yard", a rocky outcrop in the middle of the current threatened us. With most of us strength zapped by the extremely cold water, we feebly swam towards river right and managed to avoid being strained through the rocks. I finally got to shore and couldn't see Liz. I jumped up to see if I could spot her–she was around a rock outcrop puking out the river water. I climbed over to her and we rejoiced in being alive after a huge Crystal Swim.

The rest of the team came down with one other raft flipping. We righted the boats. The rest of the day is rather a blur of frothing whitewater, spent adrenaline, and holding on and getting through. You see, below Crystal are "The Jewels." Oft underestimated, oft misunderstood–this collection of gems…Sapphire, Ruby, and the like are demanding in their own right. A collection of seven eights and nines they catch the unwary boater who has failed to look downriver from Crystal.

The third time I rowed Crystal I followed Kristen Zbornik down the left hand run and had a perfect run–after which was major celebration. This past April, I sat behind Sharon and barked commands as she piloted the boat down the left hand run. Marian and Chama were ready to highside and we kissed the cliff on the river left but we got through it. Marian could see the relief than flowed from every pore in my body when we were all safely through Crystal. I relaxed for the first time on the trip.

Today, I feel like Marian and I are in the Jewels. We got through yesterday's Crystal (the surgery) in good form, with a great line, and with the boat upright and everyone on board. It was tough but the relief at the bottom of the rapid was easily palpable. Today, with adrenaline spent, the day looms a bit tougher. She has more pain and more nausea. I have more pain seeing her in pain. We're watching for any sign of complications. We're still riding the current and trying to position the boat in the best spot for all the rapids that are coming our way and we recognize we're only a third of the way down the river.

Fortunately, we had river beta. We knew the jewels would come after Crystal and had prepared for them. We keep our oars in the water and trust that we're just where we need to be.

Nov. 18, 2009

After the jewels, the river grants a small respite. A few days filled with more slack water, beautiful sights, and rapids that are more fun than terrifying. Coming into the hospital this morning, it feels like we've left the jewels and are looking forward to going downriver at a less intense pace. I've relaxed today some and can sense movement towards healing.

We know there could still be a Lava Falls (infection) but we hope to avoid running another huge rapid on this trip. We'll keep heading downriver prepared for whatever the current takes us towards.

Nov. 19, 2009

We are definitely past the jewels. The intensity of the week has eased and we enjoy the trip home. We settle into our healing base camp (home) and start strategizing on leaving the river for the mountain eighteen weeks from now. If recovery continues to go well, we're hoping Marian will still be able to trek to Mount Everest in April of 2010.

Nov. 20, 2009

As we transitioned from the hospital to home, I was reminded of the excitement of arriving at Everest Base Camp. It usually takes between ten and fourteen days to trek to base camp and there is great excitement in finally arriving there. A few days of settling in, puja blessing and then the hard work of climbing the mountain can begin.

I was filled with a similar excitement when we reached home yesterday. Finally, we were where we wanted to be. Looking ahead, I see the long road of recovery stretching before us and I know will climb this figurative mountain in the same way we climb any other, step by step. We've found a few recovery training programs that progress from short 3 minute walks forward to full physical capacity over six to eight weeks and each day, we'll make out way through the plan. We'll be extremely mindful of rest, nutrition, and taking it all very slowly.

Looking back at the week, I can see that I was really prepared for the Crystal day but not so much for the jewels. The river has taught me once again of the value of beta and scouting and keeping an eye on both the current rapid and what lies ahead around the bend. I've appreciated the river metaphors for its guidance and ability to assist me in making sense of all the emotional currents of the week.

Nov. 22, 2009

We're happily ensconced in our base camp. The last few days have almost felt like vacation. When Marian is sitting still, she's doing so well, it's easy to forget that she just arrived at base camp. We've been having fun playing hokey from life, catching up on a few seasons of Grey's Anatomy, receiving visitors, and contemplating life six weeks down river. I am so proud of Marian and the tremendous courage she displayed this week. I will draw upon those memories when I need a dose of the same.

I am grateful to Marian's doctors, nurses, and hospital staff for providing excellent care. Thanks for all my doc and nurse friends who provided advice and hints for getting through the experience. I am also appreciative for the acts of kindness we received this week from a dietary aide providing me with a meal at the hospital to friends dropping off meals and supplies, to friends checking in and listening at the end of long days, and to family and friends coming over so I could still get out to a few hockey games. Each kindness struck a note of joy in my heart and I appreciate how deeply moved I was by each of them.

Please continue to keep us both in your thoughts and prayers. Please also add my mom and dad to that list. My dad has been having a pretty rough go of it lately and I'm wanting to infuse them both with lots of love and healing energy.

Take good care,

Sunday, November 15, 2009

With Glowing Heart: TA's Weekly Update Nov. 15, 2009

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

The title of one of the many books I read a book in grad school stayed with me over the years: "We Make the Road by Walking" because it so aptly describes the unfolding of a journey. A few weeks back, when I was first in Australia and getting used to driving on the left side of the road, I caught myself over and over again being tempted to say that "We are driving on the wrong side of the road." Each time however, I would catch myself and say aloud, "Hey–we're driving on the other side of the road" instead. I would then muse about how it easy it is to frame "different" as "wrong" and how seductive it is to stay within "secure" environs, situations where we know how things work or where we are comfortable.

Along the road, there are many intersections and our paths unfold depending on whether we turn right, left, go forward, pull a U-turn or park the car. In my presentations, I show a picture of a road sign in Tibet where my choices were to turn left and go towards a "loud ditch" or turn right towards the "Pearl Peak Supreme Headquarters." I turned my bicycle right and a few kilometres down the road saw Mount Everest towering before me.

It was then that I knew I wanted to climb Everest. Standing at the North Everest basecamp the next day, I had someone take a picture of me so that I could remember that moment of deciding I wanted to climb Everest. At that point, I wasn't worried about the climbing (though I probably should have been), I was worried about the fundraising because I had no idea how a shy, phone-phobic human being could possibly raise the $60,000 necessary to climb Mount Everest.

In 2008, along that same piece of road amid a mountain of controversy, the Olympic Torch was carried in the relay that would eventually take the flame to the summit of Mount Everest and onto Beijing for the Games. Yesterday, along High Street in Grand Falls-Windsor, I carried that same flame. Similar to a Buddhist lineage where teachings are transmitted from the Buddha through teachers to students, the Olympic Flame is passed from one Olympic Games to the next, from Athens to the next host location.

Canada is hosting the 2010 Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver and Whistler. To carry the flame to the Games, they have organized the longest domestic torch relay in history. In 102 days, the Torch Relay will use 12,000 torchbearers to move the flame 45,000 kilometres. Last night, I was honoured and touched and moved to spend 300 metres with the Olympic Flame on my parent's 45^th wedding anniversary.

I was the first to receive the flame in Grand Falls-Windsor so the flame arrived in a small lantern. The Flame Keepers transferred the flame from the lantern and ignited my torch. My moment with the flame arrived. I raised the torch skyward and felt my spirit soar alongside the bold, crackling light. I had planned to walk with the torch but was encouraged by the entourage to run if I could. Listening to their instructions, I made Marian's job as photographer tougher as she then, also had to run.

There is a red maple leaf on the torch indicates which way to hold it, "Closest to your heart," our briefer had said. My heart beat faster and faster as I took those first tentative steps into the black night and then I gazed upward at the flame and began to run. I'm not sure if I ever really looked forward as to where I was going because I was so mesmerized by the flame. "I'm holding the Olympic Flame, I'm holding the Olympic Flame" kept coming into my mind following by "This flame has been to the summit of Mount Everest and I will follow it there." I wanted to blaze the image of its bright hope on my mind, heart, and soul so that when mine dims along the road to and on Everest (as I know it will at times), I can draw courage, strength, and persistence from the thousands of athletes who have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of excellence in their sport.

As I had been warned, my time with the flame was quickly over. I turned the corner onto Church Street and walked the last few feet to the next torchbearer. I stopped, glanced at the flame once more and then brought my torch down to ignite the next one. My torch was then turned off and I spotted Marian off to my right. I quickly went over and gave her a hug and then needed to jump aboard the shuttle bus. The other torchbearers welcomed me aboard enthusiastically and I enjoyed watching the rest of the torchbearer team complete their legs of the relay.

We drove up to the community celebration where the crowd cheered on Tony Kyritsis as he arrived with the flame to light the cauldron. As I made my way towards the stage to watch the festivities, I looked at the faces of many children as I walked by with the torch. They were awestruck, glowing really (as was I). They had, at that moment, been filled with the true spirit of the Olympic Games and to any child that seemed like he or she wanted it, I offered a chance to hold the torch. They then would remark on either how heavy or light it was and marvel at its design and their proud parents would come over and capture the moment.

I was sponsored as a torchbearer by the province of Newfoundland and Labrador so I met Minister Sullivan backstage during the celebration and shared some about what the experience was like to carry the torch. After the fireworks, Marian and I realized how chilled we were and headed to find some supper. I'm grateful to Marian for making the big road trip with me out to Grand Falls-Windsor to share in my Olympic experience… sharing it with her made it more fun and more meaningful to me.

Three weeks ago, two kilometres deep along a bush road in Australia, Marian and I shared a different experience. She had a bit of a health crisis that scared us both pretty deeply and tomorrow she'll have surgery to prevent it from happening again. Marian is embarking on a mountainous journey of healing and I will be there every step along her road to recovery. I would ask that you keep us both in your thoughts and prayers tomorrow and over the next few months.

I had no idea when I decided, at that dusty intersection in Tibet, to turn right that I would attempt to climb Mount Everest, carry the Olympic Torch, or fall so deeply in love again. I've had to repeatedly leave pavement that is so comfortable and secure for the learning, growth, and love that lies just beyond sight around the bend on rutted and bumpy dirt roads.

Thanks for walking this road with me…what intersections are you at?

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The Deep Well TA's Weekly Update Nov. 8, 2009

Good Morning to All,

The early morning, early winter light is draping the South Side Hills in a gentle blanket of rose taffeta. As I glance out the window, my gaze lowers to the delightfully delicate blossoms on our "rescued" Christmas cactus. I've been learning to garden this year and this adventure has included bringing home some of the half-price specials from the local grocery store. We've saved them all and the cactus' blooms are reward for this behaviour and are reminiscent of origami cranes launching into flight from green branches.

A steaming of cup of tea warms me from the inside and is part of my swine flu avoidance program. I'm settling into my chair to reflect on the week and see what rises to the top of my mind for sharing with you today. It was a week where I wrote frequent updates to you in my mind hoping to capture a moment or an insight, and now I wish I'd actually had put pen to paper so I could remember what some of them were. Images from the later part of the week are most present in my mind so I'll start there and see what I weave out on the warp of the week.

I did three inspirational speaking engagements in the past three days: one in Gander to newly elected municipal officials from across the province, one to the Canadian Institute of Metallurgy and one to a Body, Mind, and Spirit retreat. Each group was very different in how they responded and the parts of the message that resonated with them as well as being remarkably similar. I am always awed when an audience rises in tribute at the end of one of my talks; I'm humbled and almost always–embarrassed. I do my best to accept their appreciation gracefully and silently hope that they will take something forward from the presentation into whatever challenges they are facing in their lives.

I know for me that I try to take something forward from each climb or adventure into those that come next. From Denali, I took discipline and the knowledge of how routine both inspires and nurtures discipline. From Aconcagua, I experienced both the demands and rewards of patience. Kilimanjaro brought the joys of shared experience, camaraderie, and an invitation to venture once again into deep relationship. Oyos de Salado delivered the courage to begin again leaving disappointment in its wake and Pumori taught me that in giving, I receive more much in return. Kosciuszko and other Australian experiences have delivered a plethora of summons to nurture curiosity, connection, and vulnerability.

As I think back over the delight of seeing kangaroos leaping gracefully in the distance or poised in silent witness at the side of the road, I am struck with the privilege of drinking deeply at the well of experience. Some times the water is so sweet and refreshing and at others, bitter and hard to swallow. It takes courage to continue to visit the spring never knowing what I will carry away in my life's bucket. The temptation to withdraw within is there for me but mostly I try to embrace the following instruction from Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche that "The everyday practice is simply to develop complete acceptance and openness to all situations and emotions, and to all people, experiencing everything totally without reservations or blockages so that one never withdraws or centralizes into oneself." (Thanks to Susan for reminding me of this instruction with every email she sends).

An image of climbing a knife-edged ridge comes into my mind. In some mountaineering texts I've read, they caution that when climbing such a ridge that if my climbing partner falls to one side of the ridge, I should be prepared to hurl myself over the other side thus stringing the rope that connects us over the top. This would leave us "safely" hanging over the two precipices but in quite a predicament. We'd have to sort out how to climb back to the ridge without introducing slack into the system that could enable the other to fall further down the slope. There is both vulnerability and safety that comes in roping up together and facing the challenges of climbing (and life) in community.

In talking with my homeopath this week, I saw clearly that I am being invited to experience the vulnerability that comes with the openness that the Chogyam Rinpoche was teaching about. I also perceived that in my vulnerability is my strength so rather than avoid it, it's time to embrace it. One of the gifts of my Germanic heritage is the ability to be stoic and to carry the sense of needing to pull off many things without help. As I look at the realities of preparing for and climbing Mount Everest, I see that I need to expand beyond what is comfortable and to be in the world in new and different ways and for this week, that way is being vulnerable and open to whatever is coming my way.

I also need to ask for help–something I'm not terribly good at…in one of my Buddhist texts, there is a list of 49 ways in which a Bodhisattva can fail. At the moment, I can only recall one of them: "Failing to enable or allow the generosity of others." Funny how that goes…so I'm going to practice asking for help. There are numerous ways that you can help out or support me as I traverse the path that is taking me back to the world's tallest mountain. I'll type the list of ideas that pop into my head–if any of them seem like an invitation to you, drop me a line and I'll provide more details.

Some of the things/areas I need help with:

Inspiration: I'm looking for folks to write letters/notes that I can take on the mountain and open when the going gets tough (written on lightweight paper). I can also use regular doses of inspiration/motivation along the way.

Sponsorship: We've almost got my new and improved sponsorship package completed. I need connections. As I am phone-phobic and a quite shy academic, I could use help in setting up meetings where I can present my expedition to potential funders/sponsors. I feel like I can stretch and do well at such meetings but I'm at a loss at who to meet with. Do you have folks you could introduce me to? Could you be a sponsor or do you work for an organization that could be a sponsor? As a side note, this year I do have a sponsorship option that can include a charitable receipt.

Driving: Soon it will be time to start doing multiple ascents of Signal Hill once again, could you donate a few hours of driving downhill to enable this valuable training process?

Training: Sometimes training alone is a drag. Company is nice on occasion. I'm looking for folks who'd like to go out for a hike or keep me company as I do some of my training.

Eating Well: Balancing work, training, speaking, and fundraising can leave little time out in a day. In the past, some folks have helped out by sharing meals. If you're cooking a big batch of something, perhaps you could freeze a serving or two that I can store in my freezer when life is too full to cook.

Curriculum: I'm redesigning the school curriculum we created in 2007 for teachers to use with their students. I'm looking for a few folks to help out with the revision–finding good Internet links about Everest and Nepal that can be included in the package that will go out to schools once again in the spring.

Ladders: Along with physical training, I want to practice skills that will speed up my travel on the mountain. I want to construct a "Khumbu" training ground in my back garden so I am looking for four or five aluminum ladders that I can borrow/have. They would be leaving outside during the winter so they should probably be old ladders nearing the end of their useful lives. The other day I asked Earl Ludlow if Newfoundland Power might have some old ones. I also wondered about Aliant…anyone else have an old ladder kicking about?

Boot Heating: Some climbers use boot and/or glove heating systems at high altitude. I have used the charcoal kind but am wondering about the battery powered systems–anyone have such a system that I could try out?

Gear: There are just a few pieces of gear that I need to acquire for this climb…a four season base camp tent, some new goggles, and perhaps a new expedition communications system (I'm contemplating moving up to a netbook from the PDA). Batteries…always need batteries…especially lithium double and triple A kind.

Donations: The Everest 2010 Mountain of Learning Experiential Education Award at Memorial University of Newfoundland has been created and there is now an on-line donation option. Here is the URL and please ensure you click the button for the award so your contribution gets to the right place. With many of us adding a small amount to the award, we'll reach the summit of being able to support students in short order. Thanks in advance. https://www5.mun.ca/dir/viking.gv020.p001

That's a good list for now. There will be other things that come up and I'll pass on my requests along the way. Thanks for checking out the list and I appreciate your support in all the many ways it appears.

I want to thank the sponsors who have come on-board already for Everest 2010. AppleCore Interactive has been with me since I climbed Denali and I can't imagine doing this without their support and expertise. The Egg Producers of Newfoundland and Labrador have been an important 2009 sponsor and I hope you've heard our second radio commercial "3000 eggs." I'd also like to thank my newest sponsor, Allied Health Services of the School of Human Kinetics and Recreation. They have offered to support my training and preparation through nutritional counseling, athletic therapy, massage therapy, and exercise testing.

Have a good week,

Sunday, November 1, 2009

They Fly Through the Air with the Greatest of Ease–Not! Weekly Update 11-01-09

Bunny, Bunny!

Somewhere along the way I learned that the first thing we should say on the morning of a new month is "Bunny, Bunny," so it seemed like an apt greeting for today. Welcome back to standard time for those who'd left it for the increased light of daylight savings time (I believe Arizona and Saskatchewan abstain). I remember hearing once that they tried daylight savings time once in Ecuador–I must admit I never quite understood as the sun rises and sets at the same time there all year because of their proximity to the equator (though at the same time, I think it's always good to try new things). It's definitely a change to have moved from Southern Hemisphere Spring to Northern Hemisphere Autumn where the light is leaving instead of arriving. I appreciated the few extra weeks of making vitamin D!

I am back home after some marvelous weeks of adventure and new experiences. It's hard to know what to write about first. One quote that informs my teaching and living comes from the book "Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah" where Richard Bach claims, "We teach best what we most need to learn." I also try to embrace and invite situations where I am uncomfortable or are a stretch for me. Thirdly, I believe it's critical for teachers to regularly return to the role of student so we can remember all the fear, anxiety, excitement, and joy of learning something new. The first day of the Association of Experiential Education conference provided an invitation that addressed all of the above values.

There was a poster inviting participants to spend a workshop session "flying." Not metaphorically. Flying for real. On a trapeze! I have to digress a bit to say that I have always been a fan of the circus and the trapeze artists are some of my favourite acts. I even considered attending the Barnum & Bailey Circus Clown school as a young adult (they only admitted US students at that point). After seeing Cirque de Soleil in April, I must confess to checking out their website to see what it took to become one of their performers. So naturally, when offered the opportunity to fling myself into space holding onto a trapeze bar, I jumped at the chance, as did my dear friend and colleague, Karen Warren. Karen signed up her 16 yr old daughter, Amelia, as well!

About 17 others joined us and our first challenge was to find our way to Trapezium by the Montreal metro! I instantly recalled my challenges in Moscow navigating the subway using Cyrillic signage. I appreciated the bilingual world of the Montreal underground. Excitement was running very high in the group, as this was a new activity for all. We arrived and were greeted by our three instructors. "Don't worry," they consoled us, "We'll have you flying in minutes." Many of us weren't sure we wanted to be airborne that quickly.

A quick demo of how to put on the safety harnesses and "Heidi the Brave" was already climbing the ladder to a blue wooden platform suspended 25 feet off the ground. Along with the belay lines, there was a net to catch us that was held about 6 feet off the ground. We al stared up with amazement as within ten minutes of arriving, Heidi had swung out from the platform, brought up her knees and hang upside down by her knees from the bar, let go of the bar with her hands, and then righted herself and then dismounted from the bar with a backflip!

Spontaneous applause and nervous twitter erupted from the group! Heidi had shown us exactly how it was done! A few turns later, it was my turn. As I climbed up the ladder, I noticed that a herd of butterflies had assembled in my midsection and were doing their best imitation of "River Dance." The beating of their wings and feet in time fanned the intensity flames of the experience and I noticed I was on an edge, both figuratively and literally. It was different sensation, as heights don't often bother me (though I don't usually fling myself off them purposely either). I came round the ladder and got hooked into the belay. The instructor on the platform moved things along with a practiced rhytm.

My left hand grasped the ladder and I was told to reach out for the bar with my right. Even though I had been warned, the bar was heavier than I ever imagined. Its weight immediately dragged me closely to the edge and to the looming drop below. On command, I grabbed the bar with my left hand and, without the aid of the instructor holding me back, I would have been catapulted into the void. Hung out over edge like a chicken waiting for slaughter, I jumped as soon as the instructor said, "Hep!"

We'd been briefed to listen to the instructor on the ground who would let us know the ideal moment to swing our legs up, turn upside down, let go with our hands, return to the bar, and then drop the bar. I must admit that I'm not sure I heard a word he said on that first go, as sensations of flying and falling inundated my brain. However, I did swing my legs up on command but neglected to bend my knees. I tried again on the second swing and got my foot nearer the bar but still fell short of the task. I dropped to the net without waiting for the command and so got a stern talking to about listening more carefully for the commands. I think the butterflies' dance had deafened me to the sounds of the outside world.

It was new to be less physically competent than the rest of the group–turns out that I'd been too strong but under-flexible. I turned my attention to Karen and Amelia and the butterflies stomped off stage right. It was so cool to watch Amelia hit it perfectly on her first go! After everyone had a first round go, it was time to try it all again. As I climbed the ladder, I rehearsed the move in my mind and imagined my knees bending enough to allow my legs to come through my hands. The butterflies briefly migrated through but this time, it was easier to stand on the platform holding the bar since the sensations were more familiar. "Hep!" I'm flying once more but again my feet strike the bar on both attempts. At least this time, with more spaciousness inside my belly, my ears seem to work and I follow the instructions and pull off a beautiful back flip when dismounting the bar.

As I flip off the net, I'm given the keys to the city. Simone, the head instructor says he has just the technique for someone like me who has little flexibility…"Hold your hands close together and swing your legs straight wide and around." I waited for my third attempt sad that while others are graduating to "being caught," (leaving the safety of their bar to swing from the arms of another instructor) and I was still working on the prerequisites. I climbed the ladder seeing my new move in my mind, leapt off the platform, flew through the air, my legs swung up and suddenly my knees were effortlessly on the bar! On command, I let go of my hands and arched my back looking towards the rafters-perfect position for being caught next time. I end that round with another back flip and the place erupted in cheers! "I did it!" I yell to myself and I pump my fist in the air.

Simone says, "Leave your harness on–I want you to go up again soon." Once again, the butterflies are back, this time flying in a unified swarm bouncing hard from one side of my belly to another. I'm amped! I'm charged. The adrenaline is coursing through my body. A few turns later, I venture up the ladder once again–hoping to follow Amelia's lead and fly perfectly into the arms of my catcher. I'm nervous thinking I will screw up. I'd only had one go at my new technique. The platform instructor advises me to listen carefully to Simone as she noticed that I'd gone a little early than one of his commands on my previous go.

Left hand holding the ladder. Right hands reaches out for the bar. Left hand joins it. Hanging out over the net. The catcher begins swinging–this time, he calls the "Hep." I launch. I swing. Legs arise at the right moment. Knees catch the bar. Hands let go. Back arches. Hands grasped. Knees release. I'm swinging lower now held by someone who is hanging by his knees! After a big arch, he drops me into the net and I enjoy both the moment and the cheering support of the group. I am already thinking about how I can fly again. Not today. I'm done–stick a fork in me. The wayward Monarchs have pressed all of the adrenaline out of me rather like those who stomp the juice from grapes to make wine.

Karen, Amelia and I speak excitedly about the experience the entire metro ride back to the hotel. We invent a greeting of raising our hands and saying "Hep." We bask in the glow of a new and challenging experience. We've lived at our edges and now can celebrate all of the insights that come from being there.

For me, it was fabulous to observe our instructors work with folks in the trapeze environment. I loved watching good teachers and being taught well. I enjoyed feeling the sensations and feelings of student-hood and pledged to remember how that felt the next time I begin a class or ask a student to step closer to her or his edge. I will ponder my reaction to the challenge of taking several tries to get it and appreciate my tenacity in trying. Finally, I will cherish sharing the experience with Amelia and Karen and I'm certain that the next time we see each other, we will relive the experience over and over again.

So, I'm out of time and space to talk about kangaroos and koalas–that will have to wait…after a few weeks of little physical activity, I look forward to the next phase of training that begins tomorrow! Drop me a line to let me know where your edge is hanging out these days. Happy November and have a great week!

PS...There are pictures nestled safely in Karen's camera. I'll post them when I get them!