This ocean: I have been in it every summer since I was born. Water that has held me at every turn, and I always seem to find myself back in its comfort. Maybe I think that swimming in the ocean, this ocean will make me less damaged. That the salt and sand will swirl up around me as I cut through the surf and heal me. Silly, right? I am still amazed at my need for this sea. This overwhelming connection to just jump in … somehow I know it will catch me. I should stand at the shoreline with the other mothers watching my sons as they swim and jump, and ride waves. But it just doesn’t fit, so I run after them.

The water is cold, strong and moving. To feel the current pulling slightly on my thighs as I leap in and under, reminds me to stand up again and push against it. The boys go zipping past me on boogie boards squealing in delight that I am actually in and can swim right next to them. My tiny nephew dances on the beach between his mother and grandmother. He waves from time to time to me and tries to shout my name, but it dissolves in the surf. My brother stands with his Raybans on and his arms crossed in this same triangle never taking his eyes off the water. Trained Jersey lifeguard that he is … his muscle memory kicks in. I can almost hear him out loud tracking all our boys in the ocean and making sure all heads are above water. The lifeguard in the stand gives him a subtle nod of the head, more or less saying ‘Dude, no worries, I sense you are on this; all’s cool’ — lifeguard family royalty will get you far in this town. My father sits in his high blue beach chair holding court and never taking his steady green gaze off the ocean. I can see it from where I am out in the waves… as if he can quiet the waters in some Poseidon like calm for all of us.

All I need is my wide-brimmed sunhat, Chapstick and absolutely no flip-flops. An ease washes over me – something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I would love to bottle it and spritz it all over me like a perfume. I focus on the smell of the tide and late afternoon sun skimming the water lightly at first and then spreading out vast, quiet and strong.

The grown-up in me prevails and I must pack up and head home. As we load ourselves into the car, I consciously decide not to rinse the salt and sand from my hair. I want it to whip around my face in the wind as we go over the bridge leaving the island — slightly wild and unkempt, little bit of a salute to my youth. The boys have melted into a morphed pile of sunburned faces and beach towels — their heads collapsing in the middle seat slightly touching one another. Exhausted and content.

Two hours later we split fried shrimp and a lobster roll watching our murmuring  harbor at home, discussing jellyfish and shark week on the Discovery Channel. They pepper me with ‘Would you rather swim into a swarm of Portuguese Man of War or get attacked by a shark?’  A heated debate ensues. We then wind into a long conversation about whether all white jellyfish are non stinging. ‘Had I ever been stung? Where? How old was I? How terrible did it feel? What could I liken it to? Was it as bad as a bee sting?  Rate the pain on a scale of one to ten.’   We three end the night by walking  through Marine Park spotting jellyfish with long, translucent tentacles in the river and watching the crabbers pull up their snapping cages.  As we make our way back to the car, I notice the tops of the boys’ heads are framed in this exquisite halo of blazing, orange light from the sunset dropping slowly into the river. I couldn’t see it, but I’ m sure my own head was included in their light.

What heals? Salt. Ocean. Time. People. Sunsets. Hard work. No work. Writing. Laughing. Friends. Red wine. Prayer. Sobbing. New love. Solitude. Sitting quietly. Movement. What is IT? Not one particular thing, I suppose. No magic pill, no one specific incantation, or potion. Perhaps a combination of them all?  The willingness to heal, the want to heal … is that at the crux? Is that the shift, the vital shift towards feeling some connection and safety again?

Her wind blew me out of my bed.  Literally. The sheets of rain were LOUD and heavy, even a bit unforgiving.  I tried to go back to sleep but nothing arrived.  I figured I needed to get up … something was compelling me to watch this, take note.  She arrives so forcibly – how could I not greet her?  She was impossible to ignore.  (That would also be rude!)

As I swing by feet out of bed, I know that I am headed at some point today down the street to collect various window screens that the wind is prying off the house – maybe even a bit of wading into the river if they drifted that far. My room is encased in windows.  I roll up every single one of my shades and watch.  The torrents of rain are so heavy and fast that I can barely see familiar shapes outside. Our Crape Myrtle tree by the mailbox and the swing set are huge blobs of shadow.  My whole room is reflected out into the night.  Sitting in my chair I can see the whole room replicated in the reflection of the glass.  The rain is now a steady stream giving this reflection some clarity; the picture is a bit sharper to me.   I can see it all in the storm: my alarm clock, my stack of books on my night table, a tea-cup, a clumsy pile of shoes in the corner  — even me in my chair! I wave to myself just to make sure I am seeing it all correctly.  Fondly, I wave back.

I keep thinking that the lull of rain and wind should make me sleepy.  No dice.  There is still too much noise.  The gutters are gushing with rain water and the wind though tamed a bit is still a steady braying.  Now I hear the sirens.  An ambulance or a fire truck, I am not sure which, races towards Sea Bright.  The scream comes rushing up into my ears and then fades back again. It moves me to “check on” things. I run down the hall to make sure that the leak in Harry’s room has not started up again … and that window near the bookcases  that leaked like a sieve over the summer is tight still.  The boys are untouched by it all. They are still tight in their cocoons.

But then my alarm starts to quietly flash — a light blinks for 30 seconds before the blaring buzzer begins.  It is my subtle nudge to start the day.  It is time to get up.  Again.   Now, it’s time to go out into the rain and share it with the rest of the world.  It is time to move and no longer observe.  Time to well, basically get wet.

I must be submerged in a large body of water all day long. Walking across a sidewalk and boardwalk with no shoes burns the bottoms of my feet. I find myself jumping, twisting and leaping from shadow to shadow cast by the lawn chairs just to get to the edge of the pool. The glare from the sun is blinding and overwhelming. Recklessly, I just dive right in … I might even be fully clothed, who cares? I can’t seem to get away from the heat fast enough! Diving into the pool with my sunglasses on, I have lost them 3 times already. The children dive below and scour the bottom of the pool for them … a seek-and-retrieve mission that seems to keep us all happy and busy for a while.

More heat. More humidity. No pause from it. Like a battle. Must stay outside. Don’t go in. Don’t cave. Be strong. You can do it. It’s summer for crying out loud, who sits inside? The feeble, the weak … the ones who can’t hack the heat. The smart ones sit inside. That’s who.

The boys are completely unaffected. They move like African gazelle with an abounding grace and alacrity.  They leap, and jump across searing miles of sand as if it was as cool and comfortable as a day in May. They argue with me about the “You Promised Us” a Running Bases game in the sand. I must do it. I HAVE to do it. I rearrange the game so that one base is in the middle of the ocean … I cover THIS base.  Solutions are out there, you just have to be literally standing in them in order to see it.

It is hard to imagine snow, rain or cold of any kind. My mind is racing to remember it all  — it might help deaden the brain sizzle that is happening to me right now. I cannot seem to muster it.

The freezing waters of the Atlantic erase it all … swooshing waves cover me completely. I can feel my hair spreading out behind me like a vast swag of seaweed, tangled all over the place and then smooth again as soon as a wave pulls me under. Harry and I dive in front of one another, crossing waves just as they break. He is a flash of red bathing suit and blond, and I can hear him laughing loudly at the ocean. Danny is jumping closer to shore … telling me to turn around – to catch him — so he can swim out to me. I think he is even clutching a tennis ball in his right hand, ready for a game at all times. We practice riding waves in, judging and critiquing each wave on where and when it is about to break, and then to get out in front of it FAST and then stretch your body out like a surfboard – stay ahead of it, I yell as they squirm away from me and try to ride it all the way to the edge of the lifeguard stand.

Finally, the boys pause … wouldn’t actually call it done … just pausing. We roll up onto the beach and sit with our legs stretched out in front of us and let the little, quiet waves roll up and over us. Leaning back on our arms, we  just sit for a minute finally cooled from head to toe.  Danny recommends a dribble castle. And so it starts: good placement so the castle doesn’t get swept out to sea with the first wave, but close enough to get the right amount of necessary dribble water. The moat, the base for the castle and then the long, twisting, Gothic dribbles begin. I am grateful for this day, this place, this ocean, even the damn heat that has driven us all to this moment. It is good, it is simple and it is mine … even with my sunglasses sitting on the floor of the ocean

Our friends live across the street from a beautiful, quaint harbor that opens up to Sandy Hook.  Their beautiful, radiant home is alive with laughter, warm light and family.  Their wraparound porch hugs the house as if putting protective arms around it.  My boys are sitting Indian style on the front lawn with ice cream sandwiches in their hands with the rest of the children … some grass stains here, a few Coke cans there, but all heads turned up at the sky.  There’s a pause and steady stare into the night sky. BOOM. CRACK. SPARKLE.  And then a mist of sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle.  The fireworks begin.

I don’t watch the sky right away, I watch them. Harry smiles and never blinks. He skillfully manages to get the ice cream sandwich to his mouth without looking at it.  Danny studies the sky very intently, with a serious brow; he describes the fireworks display to me — how it all looks to him, but he never takes his eyes off the night sky stage.  Their reflection in the light makes them look about as beautiful as I have ever seen them; an outline of awe and wonder.

I move over to the steps of the porch to sit with the other grown-ups.  Cath’s garden with its wild flowers frames us in the night air. We seem to all share the same wonderful sense of holding time still for just a bit … a toast for a wonderful night, some old memories that make a few laugh, really magnificent deep belly laughs, a request to catch lightning bugs in a mason jar, and then finally a bit of quiet, and a true appreciation for this beautiful night … and that we can all have it together. This moment settles on top of us like a mist or a sprinkling of some fireworks.

The back door must be opened and closed no less than 561 times a day. Capri Sun packets, Gatorade and water bottles litter the garage floor. I hear new baseball nick names tried out. “Hey T-Bone. Do you like that one? Did he answer to it? What about D-Money? That any better?” The boys discuss in great detail their baseball schedules, who is playing for their team, what field is best, what color their team is, coaches, players, etc. Enthusiasm and energy levels sky rocket. The crack of the bat. The frenzied search in the garage for cleats that fit. Jeans with deeply embedded grass stains. Elbows with deeply embedded grass stains.  In order to make it to the game on time, I  find myself tearing out of the driveway at about 40mph throwing granola bars at the children in the backseat reminding them that this was “dinner.”   I pause slightly when I hear the crunch of the rusty pitch back under our tires … we roll down the windows, hang our heads out the window and examine the damage.  Sigh …these are the  good times — my mantra until cocktail hour.

Bases: an old sled and half a boogie board are used for first and second bases. Third base is an orange parking lot cone but the dog keeps stealing that one to gnaw on so third base is a bit “ambiguous” for the time being. (“h’bout this? we make third base in the general direction of that sprinkler head near a pile of orange strips of leftover plastic cone?”)  And finally the front garden has been turned into a baseball field.

When the great snows melted, we discovered a whole host of toys and sporting equipment in the back yard. Bats, balls and shoes (don’t ask) we haven’t seen since the third week of December! Oh joy! Spring has offered us the old as new once again. I shake, sweep and scrub off winter. This physical scouring is paralleling a cleansing of the soul and making me re-examine.  Our dinghy stands in the far right corner of our back garden. Its tarp has blown off  countless times; it is filled with rainwater, frozen chunks of ice and piles of leaves.  As I stand over it  bailing out buckets and buckets of water, the boys climb trees and swing through the air. I am so thankful for the change of seasons. I am so grateful for the warm air on my forehead and the longer hours of sunlight. The sun and air are a kind of liberation. The sun is with us longer, and it seems that a trip to the ice cream shop over the bridge by the beach is a ritual now every evening.

We venture down to the beach with a sharp breeze cutting through us, but also with some hot sun bearing down on top of our heads. The ocean is numbingly cold, but we stand it because we know that spring is here and that summer must be close behind. The roll and roar of the waves mesmerizes me.  Few people scattered across the beach: two young teenagers flirting with the ocean as it snaps at their feet drawing them closer; a couple walking hand in hand; a family with shells toppling out of their bucket. Each component,  each individual story oblivious to the other.  I treasure this little pause and take  a deep invirogating breath of sun and salt air … letting it fill me and carry me.

And you now what? What if it just too damn much … what if it just one thing after another, one misery after another? A healthy balanced person would grab you by the collar and shake you slightly and say “Snap out of it. Find joy, find something.” And start small … like perhaps take joy in the small but quite important fact that your coffee was hot that morning, or that you found a great parking space in the middle of Manhattan, or that someone left you the last bowl of Captain Crunch.

Or maybe it isn’t as vivid as this good vs. bad spectrum that I paint? Perhaps it is to notice what you DO have, what is already in front of you, under your feet or nestling in your arms. Take note of what does work … that these blessings that surround us everyday are really our glue. And maybe these small blessings are really what arm us against whatever might come down the pike. That perhaps we have to pay closer attention to these blessings, nurture them, hold them up to the light and honor them more.

I am now presently in the back corner of our garage digging through heaps of junk to find our old goldfish bowl because it is now our new blessings bowl!   The spirits of the 15 or so goldfish that once lived there will be our start to counting our blessings. They were good fish, short-lived but nevertheless reliable pets who were always happy to see us … well, we think they were happy. Hard to tell at times, though. In any event I digress.

Once filled with water and life, the goldfish bowl now possesses a loftier use. And I am hoping that it becomes a ritual around here … a daily or weekly homage. I want my boys to take part in this by contributing their own blessings. A few years ago when I was trying to institute nightly prayers, I created something called Five Happy Things From Today. It morphed from a mixture of nightly prayers and a bit of talking and then some reflection. In any event, it works despite its sloppy packaging. As I tuck them into bed every night, I ask these soapy sleepy boys to tell me their Five Happy Things from that particular day. It is a great way to make them stop, and look back on what happened that day and shift their balance to the good, to tell me in their own words whatever worked for them that day. Every once in a while they want to throw an elbow and tell me something that floundered or sputtered and failed, and I listen, and I try to stay quiet … and then attempt to reroute them back to their smiling points. I even try it with myself, lulling myself to sleep … to  re-examine, re-evaluate and shift the ol’ focus.  I am hoping that our new blessings bowl on the kitchen counter will keep us on track and be a gentle reminder.

I go and do the dance: attack the grocery store, fill the car with gas, locate all the sleds, buy more gloves and mittens, stock the fridge with beer, find flashlights, charge things that appear “chargeable.” It is an “Event” and perhaps even a bit like a holiday. Though, it always turns to rain for us. They talk a big game, and then that night we lie in our beds holding our breath, but then we hear it — that (dreaded) soft pelting of rain as it starts to hit the windows. And we have to roll over and close our eyes with that sunken disheartened pit in our bellies that we WILL indeed have school tomorrow. We will wake and hear for several hours “OH it just missed us, went farther north. Storm of the century misses … blah, blah, blah.” We stop listening and don’t care anymore. We have rain and it feels as if the whole rest of the world has snow. We sigh heavily and with great drama. Someone puts a calendar in front of me and asks me to review how many more days until Memorial Day.

But not this time — Noooo Wayyyyyy. Not this February. A beautiful generous Nor’easter heads right for the coastline and would in fact NOT drop more than a dusting to our Northern neighbors. Ahah! Turning the ol’ meteorological tables on you. A storm made just for us! We woke up Wednesday and sure enough … it was a substantial covering with more to come for the next 24 hours.  THIS on top of the 14inches that fell three days earlier (but according to my sons that one doesn’t count because it was a weekend). Find the sleds!

The natural inclination is to get out there as fast as possible because who knows how long it will  last? Rain could be coming, sun … any number of melting evils lurked in the near future. So the rush and panic to get outside was indeed quite intense. My two boys were literally racing one another to get dressed and get out there IMMEDIATELY. A literal cloud of boots, snow pants, hats, pajamas, mittens … and then the back door gets kicked open … a small moment of silence, a bow of respect. Then the screams of delight as they race and roll around in our new clean white blanket of snow. Shouting to one another about being the first set of footprints all over the back yard, and the first one down the slide into an enormous drift (they couldn’t decide who should go first, so they let our beloved dog Millie go down first. She is overjoyed.) I couldn’t help myself either … I jump into my ugly, but warm jacket and my very fetching Fargo hat, and venture out. I listen to the wind; stop and see all of it, stay in this very moment of winter. Perhaps a bit of peace.

Whacked upside the head with a snowball, my  moment comes to a jarring halt.  I must go and school these two in a little Jersey style snowball pelting.

The day stretches ahead of us. I figure I had better do something “productive” and shovel.  Why I am not sure. I attempt to dig out our lengthy front walk. And as I am furiously shoveling away, I notice Harry smashing snowballs at the front door. This apparently is a snowball fight with a twist: Danny stands inside the house and periodically opens the front door as Harry stands OUTSIDE pegging snowballs at it … trying to nail his brother INSIDE. This game goes on over my head as I shovel  … little symbolism here, eh? Piles of snow now inside the house as well.

Next: our neighbor calls  just to inform me that the boys are on top of our car. After close observation, she believes they JUST might be trying to clean snow off  of it but … now she is confident that they are doing cannonballs into a drift below.  I realize this when Danny appears at the back door holding both windshield wipers in his hands sobbing that he broke the car.

I welcome the quiet and the solitude of the storm. No one can get to us, and we don’t need to get anywhere. This little frozen paradise  is special: we don’t need to dig out a car and get to a city for a job … we have the luxury of doing nothing but shoveling, sliding, sledding and snow angel-ing. A 2 hour commute doesn’t haunt me, many other things do but for today it won’t get me. My week is sideways. Nothing seems to get done; dishes sit in the sink; we eat an unnatural number of grilled cheese sandwiches; we sleep during odd hours; the phone rings less; rootbeer cans pile up; no emails get checked. We live suspended from real life for a few days. It’s a break and we get to hide from our typical responsibilites. Glorious for all of us, but especially me. I am not quite sure when this moment in time will happen again … to be tucked away with these adorbale, fun, creative boys with not much hanging over our heads.  So I lock this time in my heart to always remeber our snow escape.

My friend Lauren, who I met through our local breast cancer support group, and I had both applied to the Life Beyond Cancer conference. We diligently filled out our applications and relayed our cancer stories to the committee, and ….  Whammo!  We were both accepted. And before I knew what hit me, Lauren had us booked on flights to Tuscon, AZ and was jotting down my cocktail preference for the flight.

Life Beyond Cancer (LBC) is a four-day retreat for women cancer survivors, social workers and oncology nurses focusing on the many components of advocacy and wellness through and beyond the cancer experience. The group has been organizing this particular retreat for ten years.  It is laden with amazing speakers, workshops, lectures and group activities.  The retreat, held in the desert, is in the Valley of Miracles, Miraval.  The mission for all of us, as the participants, is to come home to our own communities and take some of Miraval with us … to begin or support an existing advocacy program.  How to bring some of this peace, balance and calm back to my runaway train of a life?  Ah, the challenge presents itself … and probably another  blog entry in there too, I suppose.

Have I mentioned that LBC is held at the Miraval Life in Balance Spa?  Oh well it is.  And did I also mention that this Valley of Miracles is one of the most luxurious place I have ever been to?  Oh well it is.  The thing that hit me right between the eyes as soon as we pulled up to the front gate was the quiet, the sense of calm everywhere you turned.  My room was filled with cashmere throw blankets and literally a mountain of feather beds.  The dining room held heaping portions of delicious fresh vegetables, wonderful gourmet meals, and well … yes chocolate too.  At night before I dropped off into a sinking sleep, I heard coyotes calling to one another.  This strange and beautiful place was so different from my home … tucked into the desert at the foot of the Catalina mountains, it was mystical and pure.  I was amazed at the landscape and the energy, quiet and very strong swirling up around my feet and embracing me.  This wide open place was filled with sprawling cactus, soaring mountains and a sky that went on uninterrupted for miles. I was so far away from home and from all that tied me to it.  I couldn’t hide behind anything here, nor did I want to.  It was rejuvenating to be in such a different world. I think, no … I know … that it is good to be away from who you are everyday: somewhere along the lines the “you” gets lost.  And you may need to take yourself completely out of what you know and what is thought of as “comfortable” to identify yourself again.  I found it challenging, fun, scary and well frankly … necessary.

The retreat featured amazing lectures and speakers … some very funny, some very serious and all filled with compassion and understanding.  Miraval the Spa offered all of us as part of the LBC group their normal run of the mill activities; such as succulent spa treatments, their equine experience, rock climbing, zip lining and other adventure fueled activities.  I did not get an opportunity to take part in their famous equine session, but spoke with a few women who did, and was so impressed that I have decided I need to go back just for this experience alone!   A man named Wyatt Webb is the director. He is a cowboy, a real live one. He is also an author penning works such as It’s Not About the Horse, What To Do When You Don’t Know What To Do, and Horses Don’t Lie. Mr. Webb’s focus of working the horses is to give some insight into learned behavior that works against us.  The experience is designed to help you communicate better in relationships … and especially to see and hear yourself with more clarity.  And how!

I found some snippets of a wonderful interview with Wyatt from Creations magazine:

Wyatt starts the [equine] session by telling these folks that he’s not here to change anybody’s life.   “I   don’t have the power to do so,” he says. “I don’t have your answers. I’m not here to argue with or discredit traditional therapeutic modalities. I’m not accusing anybody of doing a shitty job or saying that traditional psychotherapy isn’t helpful. But I certainly hope that we can add to whatever already exists in the therapy world as you know it.”

Wyatt has been a practicing therapist for a number of years, but his tools don’t involve a leather couch and his helpers don’t arrive in suits or high heels. “You’re going to clean some hooves,” he tells the group, “and you’re going to groom the horse.”

“How you relate to this animal will tell us what you’ve learned over the course of your lifetime concerning how you  relate to all living things. Your basic training has come from learning how to treat people.”  He pauses and adds,  “Remember one thing: It’s not about the horse.  I can teach you a few basic skills that will keep you safe in any barn in the world, but what we’re here to look at– is what you’ve learned over the course of your lifetime that either works for or against you in your relationships.”

Every morning and most evenings there was a spiritual ceremony at the Kiva, an enormous outdoor fire pit.  The Kiva was our meeting place, spiritually and literally.  In the cold December Arizona morning, I huddled under my bright green jacket and my Yankees cap and watched the sun rise over my shoulders and back. I loved the Kiva’s slightly bitter, murky smell of white ash wafting up to envelope me.  I participated in the spiritual and healing sessions that were held every morning — Jewish, Catholic and Native American.  The  Kiva was alive with singing, drinking, meditating, and storytelling late at night.  Women gathered to tell their stories, share their fears, voice their anger, laugh … or to just simply sit by the fire.   I didn’t know where to start my story or what part to jump in with.   Hell, I was even waiting for some sedge way where upon I could slide in a funny anecdote … but nothing presented itself.  As usual, I was over thinking it. So I poured myself a large glass of red wine, wrapped myself up into a prickly horse blanket ( the temperature plummeted at night), and listened.  I listened for a while.  And eventually I found where I could jump in … where I fit, where my story, sad, true and maybe even a wee bit funny worked itself out into the open.

So as I describe my great voyage in the Valley of Miracles, it is chock full of mediation, healing sessions, inspiring speakers, spa treatments, food, and wine … it is also filled  with lots of exercise!  Every morning before sunrise, there was a walking group, a yoga class, and stretching.  But as my Thelma-N-Louise partner, Lauren, argued … we needed more adventure.  Something we wouldn’t be doing at home: say for instance scaling a 25 foot telephone pole and jumping off.

As we make our way down to the “adventure course” there are signs, danger signs all over the place that I happily ignore. Things such as an extensive webbing of zip line cords, rock climbing walls, rope courses 50 feet in the air, (perhaps even faint screaming in the distance?) and  … the Quantum Leap.  This Quantum Leap sounded good on paper and well — Hey wasn’t this about taking full advantage of all that I could see and do here?  Why not? Give it a whirl! However, once strapped into my very Bavarian Lederhosen looking harness, I began to sweat.  Searching for Lauren’s reassuring smile and laughing voice, a knot began to grow in my stomach.  The minuscule platform at the top of the pole, my ultimate end point, looked smaller than a dinner plate.  I was tethered, of course, but the end of my line was being held by  two women whom I had just met 11 minutes ago, and I can’t remember if they had strong hands or not?

Instructor Neil, asked that we shout out numbers and do the climb in that order … and he added … that for those of us who always have to be first, maybe to go last now … to try doing this differently, challenge ourselves.  I like to be first and especially with nerve-wracking things: jump in, get it over with, rush through it, move quickly and be done.  So clearly  I was planning on ignoring Neil and trying to get this over with — fast.  But fate followed me AGAIN.  Out of 8 women I ended up being 7^th in line for the Leap.  Good, that gives me oodles of more time to sweat, and be nervous and well … watch.  So I watched.  I studied where to put my foot on the last rung so I could hoist myself up into thin air, how to breathe, where the wind was, how not to face the sun dead on, etc.  Just like cancer, these women paved the road for me: showed me where to step, how to breathe, the strength and power of balance, how the whole struggle and journey looks.

When it was my turn … well I don’t know, but I just did it. That sounds so simple and boring, but quite true.  I climbed quickly and just took one rung at a time (pardon the obvious pun here).  I didn’t look past the rung that was right in front of my nose.  And taking Lauren’s encouragement, I never looked down.  My friends from home drifted into my mind:  how they nurture me, their strength, and their sense of balance that I witness every day.  As I neared the top, I slowed down and took my time as I approached the impossible part of hoisting my entire Dorothy-body up into the air and on top of that dinner–plate-excuse-of-a-platform.  I found my leap of faith  in actually taking my foot off the last rung and swinging it up and over on to the tippy top of the pole; and then attempting to straighten myself into a standing position with my arms wide open like an eagle.

My legs were shaking so much that the entire telephone pole was swaying as if it was listening to music.  Oh and a few expletives were shouted down to Neil who didn’t inform me that the “platform” {can we REALLY call it that?  It was 10 inches wide, and at best this is a Frisbee} rotated!  That’s right — it moved and shimmied.  So much for solid footing once you reach the top.  My focus and balance were vocal. I spoke out loud to myself and I think it worked! The telephone pole stopped shaking, my jaw unclenched and my knees no longer felt like jelly.  I wanted to step off and jump down immediately, but the women below shouted “NO you have to stay there, enjoy it.”  I started to study my landscape: I drank up the mountains and smelled the sky, felt the sun on my forehead, and sensed accomplishment, and allowed myself to be proud.

Later that evening, one of our speakers began his lecture with a quotation by Marcel Proust “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”    I want very much to change how I look at things,to change my perspective because I believe it can change my whole life.  It holds the possibility for great joy.  I am so grateful for all the men and women who put LBC together and infused in me the critical process of healing body and spirit together … and that this particular relationship is vital to being a survivor.  And that might be surviving many things, not just an illness.  “Having new eyes” I understand also to be finding balance and how it can empower you, and help you see your own strength, and most importantly your own joy.

And so I find myself trying to locate another holding hanger for the Christmas stash. The only place that they physically cannot get to is the attic because their little arms are too short to yank on the rope to pull down the stairs. Though, I wouldn’t put it past them to stack one on top of the other and grab it. Well, then the attic it is.

I pull down the stairs and start tossing stuff up: batteries, a wrapping table, tape, rolls of wrapping paper, bows, string and then finally presents. I am hoisting stuff up there and find myself at one point balancing a stack of Legos boxes on top of my head.  I  clear a spot and create a teeny elf work station. I find it all a bit crowded but functional, and ever so slightly reminiscent of the movie “Being John Malkovich.” I am almost proud of myself until I begin to think of what I have left down below … my very necessary screwdriver so I can install batteries and rip open annoying small plastic tie backs.

So as I begin my great descent, I notice that the stairs are missing! They have folded back up again — they aren’t straight and flush with the floor. And I can’t seem to shake them out, shake them straight so I can climb down. So now what? Am I stranded and stuck up here? It isn’t possible, is it? I notice the dog has started to whine, and has come to the foot of the collapsing stairwell and begins to circle below. She has nervously acknowledged that I have been swallowed up by the ceiling. She sits down, and patiently wags her tail and occasionally looks up at me, but eventually she gets distracted by a clean pile of laundry and wanders off to frolic in socks. So much for that rescue mission.

Ok now what? I begin to sweat. How am I going to get down? I could jump. Would I survive the fall? Should I unwrap Harry’s new bike helmet and wear it when I throw myself out of the attic? How far down is it? Am I being overly dramatic?  How far could it be? Could I deal with a broken ankle right before Christmas? And do I ACTUALLY tell people how I did it? Perhaps I should stay up here until the boys come home from school but then my elf work is exposed. Why don’t we have a phone up here? When did I eat last? How could we possibly buy a house with no window in the attic? How many hours are we looking at here? Whose stupid idea was this anyway to drag Christmas up here? I am now splayed out flat on my stomach with arms dangling down to try to shake the stairs out AGAIN… to no avail. So after singing the entire soundtrack of The Sound Of Music, and looking through 5 boxes of old yearbooks and photos, I tell myself I must do something. How much longer could I stay up here, trapped? And plus my repertoire of show tunes was dwindling. Ok I had to do it. Had to jump… or work out some sort of spelunking-repelling-climbing- clinging movement down whatever stairs I had available to me.

I began to lower myself down and  when I felt the stairs buckle, I just jumped! I know it sounds anticlimactic given all my worries and show tunes, but there it was: I was down and I had not broken anything. Thank you God, Thank you Santa Claus, Thank You God of Christmas Elves.  Now Christmas could continue. And as the rest of the day took shape, I thought long and hard about what one does to keep the belief alive, to keep the magic of Christmas twinkling. It might be books, Christmas music, family traditions, decorations, maybe even elves … or it just might be throwing yourself out of the attic. But I think it is worth it! Whatever measures need to be taken to keep the marvel and excitement breathing and present–it  is definitely worth it. I know I believe and have faith in a little magic once a year … at least once a year.

My breath on a cold morning

Health and happiness of my family

Indoor plumbing

Faith

My purple cashmere scarf  … that  I can wear as part bedspread, part cape

Large piles of leaves … irresistible piles that are just screaming for you to run-jump-and kick around in

Our dog Millie and her loyal, loving heart

Hot coffee first thing in the morning

Friends

VERY  very good eye cream

The opportunity to make each day one of  joy

My ability to jitterbug

Strength

A family that is smart, hysterically funny, loving and surprisingly all male and under  the age of ten

The smell of the ocean

The possibility of magic and miracle

Old ticket stubs from a trip to Italy

Long hair to tie into a swishy ponytail

Cheese steaks on the beach with cold beer

Stack of really good books on my nightstand

Sledding with my sons

Five o’clock in the afternoon, dusk  just  as the light softens and the day slows a bit

The invention of salad in a bag

A full moon

Hope

Naps on the couch in late afternoon

Our jungle-gym-swing-set apparatus  in the backyard

Healing

Cannonballs off the diving board

Margaritas

Side splitting fall on the floor laughing

That Wednesday tennis group

Grace