I’ve Fallen – But I Can Get Up!

Posted on by stilllearning2b
The latest in designer ski ware. Or not:)
The latest in designer ski wear. Or not:)

I’ve just returned from my first ever – Gulp! – ski trip.

Experienced skiers – prepare to chuckle.

I was nervous yet excited for the trip. I was looking forward to time in the mountains (always a favorite of mine) and some quality time with my man. The nerves? Those were because I knew that I would have to face my nemesis – downhills.

Sugar Mountain on a clear day.
Sugar Mountain on a clear day.

As we drove the last few miles to Sugar Mountain in Banner Elk, North Carolina, winter suddenly appeared. The temperature plummeted as our elevation climbed and clear skies were replaced by a steady snowfall. The slopes were obscured by the snow and haze. This was probably a good thing since I was unable to see the full extent of the hills!

View from the top. Brock took this one!
View from the top. Brock took this one!

Loaded down with gear, I made my way over to the ski school while my fiance went off on his own to tackle the blue slopes. There were 15 of us in the lesson, lined up like dominoes along the gentle slopes of the school area. After learning the basics of the equipment, we were instructed to slide down the hill, one at a time, to practice the “pizza” pose (they’re used to teaching kids!) used to slow down your descent. I was the fifth one in line. Each time the instructor skied back up to the top of the line, I clarified a piece of his directions. I wanted to make sure that I understood what to do. Of course, knowledge is only the beginning – I then had to apply it. When it was my turn, I scooted out of the line and pointed my skis down the hill. With a slight push of the poles, I was off and moving. I was so focused on the placement of my feet, I neglected to be aware of my center of gravity. I overcompensated and started to fall backwards as my feet kept moving forwards. The instructor grabbed my hands and I slid between his legs. If this was a swing dancing lesson, I would have earned a gold star!

It was comforting to be in the presence of other beginners. We were all (way) out of our comfort zones. We were all scared of the skis on the slick snow. We all tried to control our speed and trajectory, some with more success than others. Some gave up. Others were cautious yet continued. And some threw themselves down the hill with reckless abandon. As for me? I’ll let you guess:)

A nervous smile:)
A nervous smile and a comforting hand:)

I only had three opportunities to slide down the hill under the watchful eye of the instructor. Each time, I required his help. At the conclusion of the one hour lesson, I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. I kept my fears in check and relaxed into the experience but this took more out of me than I could have imagined. After a brief reunion with Brock, I elected to rest for awhile and then return to the school area to practice some by myself. I was very cautious while I was practicing. There were new skiers and young children everywhere. I didn’t trust my ability to avoid them, so I spent much of my time patiently waiting for a clear path. I did discover a strength of mine during that session – I may stink at going down the hills, but I was the best in the bunch at walking uphill in skis:) New sport, maybe?

At our next meeting, Brock encouraged me to tackle the green slope with him. Now, at this point, I had done maybe ten “runs” down very mild hills that were each about ten yards long. Not exactly a lot of practice! I was hesitant. I am way more cautious than he is and I was concerned that he was trying to push me further than I was ready to go. But I trusted him and it turned out he was right.

Now, this green slope in question is a real run. It takes several minutes on a lift to get the top. Surprisingly, I was okay on that first trip to the top. I was slightly nervous, but okay. Brock was coaching me on the way, telling me what to expect and giving me encouragement. Even with the coaching, I still slid into a crumbled mess as I left the lift.

A newborn giraffe struggling to take its first steps? Nope - me on my first real slope!
A newborn giraffe struggling to take its first steps? Nope – me on my first real slope!

That was my first real fall with no swing dancing moves to keep me off the snow. Much to my surprise, I was overtaken with laughter. It turns out that falling is fun. It’s just the getting up that sucks!

After much shifting and pushing and pulling, I managed to stand upright on the level surface at the top of the slope. I took a deep breath, pointed my skis down the hill, and took off. I made it about twenty feet before I fell again, a pile of Lisa shaking with laughter. That first trip down took forever. Sometimes I fell and sometimes I panicked due to speed or the proximity of others and I bailed by sitting down. But I made it and I never panicked. And, I had LOTS of practice in learning how to stand up again!

"My" slope.
“My” slope.

As I sat in the snow at the base of the run, I realized that I had carried expectations into this trip. I thought I would be in the “classroom” the entire time. I didn’t think I would be able to complete a “real” run. I thought I would freeze in fear. It felt so good to prove myself wrong.

The next day, I tackled that same run three more times. The first one of the day held a surprise. We were on the lift, about halfway to the top, when I started to violently shake, panic moving through my body. Why was this happening? I knew the course now and I knew I could make it. I guess I had enough experience to be scared but not enough to be comfortable yet. Brock helped me refocus and breathe and the moment my skis (okay, butt – I fell immediately again!) hit the snow, I was fine.

The view from "my" slope.
Can’t beat those views!

Each run was better than the last. By the end, I didn’t fall at all and I only bailed twice – once soon after the lift and again midway down the steepest slope. Brock followed behind me shouting, “My baby’s a skier!”

And, I guess I am.

I love those experiences that cause me to revise my view of myself. I always said that I could not go down hills, run a race, cook a meal or write a book. I used to say I could not live without my husband. I like proving myself wrong.

It felt so amazing fully submitting to the experience, letting go and leaning forward into the ride. I found freedom in the downhills which once only held fear. Brock’s support and encouragement added to my trust fund for him. But even more importantly, I learned how to to trust in myself and in my abilities. And, I learned that I when I fall, I can get up again.

A skier!
A skier!

Thanks to my new friend, Paulette, author of The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap, I am up and running (okay, maybe walking:) ) on Goodreads. I’m doing a giveaway to celebrate. If you’re interested in winning a free copy of Lessons From the End of a Marriage, visit my book page!

 

Home on the Range

Posted on by stilllearning2b

UNDER THE TEXAS SKY

I grew up in Texas.

The trucks in my high school’s parking lot were adorned with gun racks. Animal control had to be called to our neighborhood to capture baby wild boars that our neighbor had housed in his garage when he accidentally shot their mother. It turns out that wooden doors are no match even for a young boar. Venison was a common addition to the lunch boxes in the school cafeteria. Gun cabinets were viewed as essential furniture, their importance falling in place somewhere between a sofa and a table.

I grew up in Texas but I guess you could say Texas didn’t grow up in me.

My parents were more hippie than cowboy. I was raised in a peace-loving anti-gun household. I developed a wariness of guns. I stayed far away from them and felt anxious if one was in sight.  This was a problem since it was Texas. Most of those gun cabinets in my friend’s homes? Yeah, glass fronts to show off the weaponry. I wasn’t fearful of all weapons. After all, I did become a fencer. But guns triggered (sorry, couldn’t resist) a fear in me that I chose not to confront.

Hippies Use Side Door
Yup. We had one of these but ours was blue.

And then I met Brock. My fiance is ex-army. He grew comfortable with shooting during his service. Since then, he has taken several gun  courses to improve his tactical training and to supplement what he practices/teaches with sticks and knives. He is good with a gun – he can send the target to the back of the range and when it returns, it will have a tight circle of holes in an intended area. He never pushed me, but he wanted me to become more comfortable around firearms. I agreed. I knew that my fear stemmed from ignorance. I also was in the early stages of confronting my fears, and this seemed like a natural step.

If my mom has read up to this point, she is probably shaking her head and wondering where I went wrong. Sorry, mom:) You may not want to read the rest…

Shooting Range

For the first year we were together, my exposure therapy was simply watching him clean his weapon after returning from the range and handling an unloaded gun. Last year, I took my first trip to the range. I was nervous, but mainly curious, as I stood in the lobby/viewing area watching the shooters behind the layers of bullet proof glass. I was okay while I slipped on my hearing protection and safety glasses. I was fine until I opened that second door that led into the range and my body reverberated with the sound of a shot. It was visceral. My body startled and shook with every blast. It elicited a primal fear in me. I wanted to exit that door and never look back.

But I stayed. My whole life, I have been wound tight, jumping at noises and physically reacting to stressors. When I experienced so much loss from deaths in high school and trauma from the divorce, this tendency was heightened. I realized that the range was a huge desensitization opportunity – a time for me to be exposed to a sound and feeling that scared me yet carried no negative repercussions. I just stood there against the back wall for a time, watching and listening, still jumping at every discharge. And then Brock motioned me up to the booth.

He showed me how to tell that the weapon was unloaded and had me dry fire a few times to get used to the grip. He then helped me load it and coached me on how to breathe and fire. My mind emptied as I pulled the trigger for the first time. The recoil, although I knew it was coming, still surprised me. I reset and slowly shot the remaining 7 rounds. I don’t think I ever even made the paper target dance, but that was okay.

Yesterday was my third trip to the range, this time with a gun that is sized more for me. The sounds of the range barely bother me now, but I still struggle with relaxing while I shoot. I have a tendency to pull the barrel up as I depress the trigger. Interestingly, this only happens when the weapon is loaded.

I am reacting out of anticipation rather than reality. Yup. Still learning that one.

By the end of the session, I was starting to find the balance between a secure grip and an overly tight one. I was learning how to hold on and relax at the same time. I am still no sharpshooter, but at least more of my rounds hit my target rather than the ones next to me. I am still not comfortable with guns but they no longer have power over me in the same way. By facing my fear, I have gained some control over my reactions. I’ll never be a marksman and I’ll never have a gun rack in my car, but I also feel like I don’t have to avoid guns altogether. Not everything has to be all or none.

So, I guess now that the girl has moved out of Texas, a little bit of Texas has moved into the girl. You probably still won’t want to call on me in the event of a zombie apocalypse, however. I’ll leave that one to those who can actually hit the target:)

TARGET: ZOMBIE!

A quick note on gun control:

There are some who feel that the solution to society’s ills is to arm everybody. Others believe that the answer is found in disarming everyone. The reality? Neither option is a panacea and both are reactions born of fear. We want to control the bad things that happen. But the reality is that we cannot. And that is often scarier than any gun could ever be. There are no easy answers and there are no quick fixes. But I think we can all benefit from recognizing and confronting our fears rather than allowing them to speak for us.

Learning to Breathe

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’ve never been very good at breathing. 

My childhood was spent with perpetual croup, the seal-barking cough echoing through the house at all hours.  Eventually, I was diagnosed with asthma, my lungs plied with drugs that were supposed to encourage them to relax.  Regardless of the dosages and names of the medications, I always failed my lung function tests at the allergists.  I wasn’t used to failing tests, but I didn’t know how to study for that one.

I adapted to my lungs.  I knew when an attack was about to have me helpless in its clutches, I knew when pneumonia was setting in.  I let my lungs call the shots and we had an agreement that I would work within their constraints.

Then, one day soon after my 30th birthday, I grew tired of the bondage.  I turned the tables on my lungs and informed them I wanted to start running.  This was a laughable goal, as I had never even completed the mile running in school.  But I was determined.

I started at a local park with a .75 mile loop.  My first try was a humbling experience.  You see, I was in shape.  I lifted weights and could do cardio.  I just couldn’t run.  Within moments of beginning, my chest heaved, my breathing was rapid and gasping.  I was taking in air as though threatened, as though the next breath would never come.  I made it one full loop that first day, but I still didn’t know how to run.

Over the next few weeks, I kept at it, returning to the park 3-4 times a week.  I starting to trust my body.  Believe in my breath.  I worked to consciously slow my breathing, pulling air deep down into the unused basement of my lungs.  As I learned to breathe, I was able to increase my mileage to the point where I outgrew that park in the next two months.

My breath training extended to yoga.  I had been practicing since I was in high school, but I always focused on the positions and movements, not the airflow.  Running had brought the breath to consciousness; yoga taught me how to use the breath to calm and energize the body.

Then July came.  Disaster struck.  I lost contact with my breath, but I didn’t even realize it.  I just knew my chest felt constricted, wrapped in bindings carried in by the trauma.  I wasn’t able to run or to do yoga, getting even further out of touch with my lungs.  It finally took a third party to make the re-introduction; a therapist at a meditation and yoga retreat that autumn after my breath left me.

I lay on the floor of her office, cradled in a soft, fuzzy blanket.  She kneeled next to me, her voice soothing and calm.  She spoke to my breath, encouraging it to return, assuring it that I was ready to make its acquaintance once again.  She spoke to me, telling me to trust my breath, to allow it deep into my lungs.

My chest began to rise, the bindings loosening.  As the oxygen flowed in, I felt grounded.  Whole.  Reconnected.

My breath and I still have a complicated relationship.  I frequently don’t find it until a couple miles into a run or 10 minutes into a yoga practice.  I still have to encourage it, willing it back into my body, especially when I find myself gripped my stress.  It may at times be a tumultuous relationship, but I have no intention of loosing connection with my breath again.

Learning to Breathe

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’ve never been very good at breathing. 

My childhood was spent with perpetual croup, the seal-barking cough echoing through the house at all hours.  Eventually, I was diagnosed with asthma, my lungs plied with drugs that were supposed to encourage them to relax.  Regardless of the dosages and names of the medications, I always failed my lung function tests at the allergists.  I wasn’t used to failing tests, but I didn’t know how to study for that one.

I adapted to my lungs.  I knew when an attack was about to have me helpless in its clutches, I knew when pneumonia was setting in.  I let my lungs call the shots and we had an agreement that I would work within their constraints.

Then, one day soon after my 30th birthday, I grew tired of the bondage.  I turned the tables on my lungs and informed them I wanted to start running.  This was a laughable goal, as I had never even completed the mile running in school.  But I was determined.

I started at a local park with a .75 mile loop.  My first try was a humbling experience.  You see, I was in shape.  I lifted weights and could do cardio.  I just couldn’t run.  Within moments of beginning, my chest heaved, my breathing was rapid and gasping.  I was taking in air as though threatened, as though the next breath would never come.  I made it one full loop that first day, but I still didn’t know how to run.

Over the next few weeks, I kept at it, returning to the park 3-4 times a week.  I starting to trust my body.  Believe in my breath.  I worked to consciously slow my breathing, pulling air deep down into the unused basement of my lungs.  As I learned to breathe, I was able to increase my mileage to the point where I outgrew that park in the next two months.

My breath training extended to yoga.  I had been practicing since I was in high school, but I always focused on the positions and movements, not the airflow.  Running had brought the breath to consciousness; yoga taught me how to use the breath to calm and energize the body.

Then July came.  Disaster struck.  I lost contact with my breath, but I didn’t even realize it.  I just knew my chest felt constricted, wrapped in bindings carried in by the trauma.  I wasn’t able to run or to do yoga, getting even further out of touch with my lungs.  It finally took a third party to make the re-introduction; a therapist at a meditation and yoga retreat that autumn after my breath left me.

I lay on the floor of her office, cradled in a soft, fuzzy blanket.  She kneeled next to me, her voice soothing and calm.  She spoke to my breath, encouraging it to return, assuring it that I was ready to make its acquaintance once again.  She spoke to me, telling me t trust my breath, to allow it deep into my lungs.

My chest began to rise, the bindings loosening.  As the oxygen flowed in, I felt grounded.  Whole.  Reconnected.

My breath and I still have a complicated relationship.  I frequently don’t find it until a couple miles into a run or 10 minutes into a yoga practice.  I still have to encourage it, willing it back into my body, especially when I find myself gripped my stress.  It may at times be a tumultuous relationship, but I have no intention of loosing connection with my breath again.