(originally printed in the Fall 2007 Om Wellness Newsletter)
I did not allow myself to
think through the idea of taking a trapeze class. I knew I wanted to do it as a
fun way to move my body, but I also knew that my fear of heights and
quickly-accelerated movement would be activated. So I just didn’t think about
it in any specific way; I recruited my friend Kate (yes, our Kate!) to go along
with me.
Sitting in a huge warehouse
with lots of complicated looking aerial equipment, I watched an instructor
nonchalantly climb up the ladder (I hate climbing ladders), step on the skinny platform
(didn’t look so high from the ground), and catch the trapeze with a long pole.
Just thinking of getting myself up there freaked me out. I took my eyes off of
the spectacle and turned to look at Kate. I told her, “I’m just going to stay
in this moment.” We were sitting on metal folding chairs, so I felt the metal,
noticed the red and yellow circus colors around us, and relaxed in the utterly
normal activity of merely sitting and waiting. The sun was pouring through windows
behind us. It felt so good to just relax and be sitting there. I watched the
instructor impressively swing back and forth, very high, her huge shoulder
muscles and ripped abs making the movement appear fun and effortless. Sitting
on the chair, watching her swing, most of my fear dissipated.
I was fine with staying in the
moment until I found out that we were not just going to swing back and forth,
which would have been plenty challenging for me. No. We were supposed to hook
our knees over the trapeze, let go and swing upside down, and then unhook our
legs before dropping to the foam mat. We all practiced on the “low bar,” with
an instructor guiding us into the movements. I couldn’t get my knees on the bar
the way he wanted me to, and I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Upside down,
I grunted and moved my calves around, feeling like some kind of strung up wildebeest.
I never got it right. I did let go when he told me to, arching back upside
down, and then grabbed the bar again on his command, somehow unhooked my legs,
and dropped back to the floor.
Because of safety and
momentum, we were all supposed to follow the instructors’ commands at exactly when
they told us to do things. They said “Ready,” we bent our knees. They said “Hep,”
we jumped. No thinking, just doing.
Kate went first. When she got
to the top, her eyes were huge. I realized that the platform must feel a lot
higher than it looks. But she followed instructions perfectly, executed every
move right on cue, and dropped to the mat looking exhilarated. I was so proud
of her! But I was also quaking with fear over climbing the ladder, much less anything
that would follow. I let two students go ahead of me, because I thought I might
puke if I was next.
I am not a detail-oriented
person. I find it hard to pay really close attention to any task; my mind works
by zooming in several directions at once. Yoga and massage are times when my mind
slows down, but take me out of the quiet room, and I am mentally multi-tasking
all the time. But in this class, safety and fear were two huge motivators to
pay very close attention to every move I made, as I was making it. When it was
my turn to climb the ladder, my hands were shaking so badly, it took me a while
to figure out how to unhook the carabiner from the safety line and click it
onto my belt. Once that task was completed, I firmly grasped the ladder and
started to climb. No thinking, just doing. I felt my breath go faster, felt the
cold metal on my bare feet and in my hands. As I got to the top, I started
running out of ladder. There was the platform. I had to step onto it. The
friendly instructor greeted me, and I thought my heart might explode with my
breathing. I forced myself to say “Hello” in a fairly normal voice, and slow my
breathing down.
At least twenty feet in the
air, the transition from ladder to platform was accomplished very carefully.
The instructor talked me through each step. I placed my left foot onto the wooden
oval, then reached my left hand out and grabbed the wire. I placed my right
foot next to my left, then brought my right hand to the other wire. I did it. I
was off the dreaded ladder, and onto the platform. This minor miracle had been
accomplished just by doing simple things, without letting myself think about them.
Step by step, I slowly made my way to the
edge of the platform, facing out into the empty space in which I would swing. I
followed instructions carefully: placing my left hand on the vertical wire,
holding my right arm out to catch the trapeze. I had to reach far out for the
bar. I knew the instructor was holding my belt, but it was hard to trust that I
would not just tumble forward into empty space. Then, the really scary part:
letting go with my left hand, and extending it forward to grab the bar.
The ideal body position at this point is
an arched back, confident open chest, and hips forward away from the instructor,
toward empty space. I was so afraid of falling, I pushed my hips back toward
the instructor, which tilted my body more forward, and I almost fell off the
platform. “Help, falling,” I gasped, and he sternly ordered me to push my hips
forward. So counter-intuitive to do that to prevent myself from going in that
direction! But I did it and regained my balance. I heard him call my name as a signal
to the instructor below: “Diana, knee hang, first time. Ready!” I bent my
knees. “Hep!” I jumped.
I felt my face grimace in terror as I whooshed
into the arc of the swing. “Knees up!” the instructor on the ground shouted. I
pushed my knees toward the bar, and they fell back down. “Try again: knees up
now!” It was even harder the second time because my swing had lost momentum. “OK,
wait for my signal. Hep!” I let go of the bar and fell into the blissfully soft,
stable mat.
My palms were sweaty, I was breathing like
I had run a marathon, and I was trembling all over. I had survived. Surely that
was enough for one day; but we were expected to try again and again until the
full hour was up. I had to climb that ladder again, stand on the platform
again, jump into space again. I moved off the mat and sat on the floor,
shaking.
When my turn came, I marched up that
ladder like an automaton. I watched my breathing, consciously slowing it. One
foot off, one hand off: the other foot, the other hand. Standing on the
platform, facing the wall. Breathing. Turning slowly, step by step, bringing my
toes to the edge. Breathing. Left hand holds on, right hand stretches out. Grab
the trapeze. Breathing. Left hand reaches out, both hands on the bar. Arch
forward. Breathing. I must have looked terrified. Holding onto my belt, the instructor
told me to fake my confidence, and it would come. I held the bar out and opened
my chest like I knew what I was doing. I told myself, “I can do this,” and
pretended that I meant it. “Ready!” knees bent. “Hep!” Jump.
This time, I tightened up my lower body to
help me deal with the swing’s momentum. “Knees up!” I got much closer than last
time. “One more time: knees up now!” I heard a loud “Agh!” escape me as I tried
my hardest to get my knees to the bar. Not as close. My swing was dying. “Hep!”
I dropped. Not as bad as before, but still terrifying.
I watched the other students get better and
better. Kate got her knees up each time, let go of the bar, stretched back
beautifully to an imaginary catcher. Amazing!
My last time up, I felt the calming ritual
of the precision of each movement. Up, up, up I climbed. Left foot, left hand,
right foot, right hand. Feeling the taped-over wire in my palms, the thinly
padded wood on my feet. Following instructions, being in every small movement,
had its own gift of calm to offer. The extreme stress of the situation was
balanced by the clear path of following verbal commands without thinking. “Ready!”
I was still so scared, the instructor had to remind me: “That means bend your knees.”
I bent my knees. Hep!” I jumped.
“Knees up!” I saw my feet come over my
head, onto the bar. I was so surprised, I let go of the trapeze and fell to the
mat, feeling nevertheless like I had achieved a victory.
I have to go back someday, to complete the
trick. My abs, my arms, and my upper chest are incredibly sore two days after
this adventure. But my mind feels like it’s been through a car wash, the kind
you drive through and water comes at you from all sides, and big rolling
brushes come down and whoosh over every inch of surface. The challenges that
worried me last week appear now as if they will take care of themselves. There
will be moments when I will be called to act, but until it’s time to jump, all
I have to do is stay where I am, notice where my hands and feet are, do only
the task at hand. Nothing I have to do, until I go back there, is as scary as
climbing that ladder and jumping off that platform. If I can follow instructions
through that fear, I can relax so much more than I have been allowing myself as
I move through my daily stresses. My complicated little life really boils down
to one step, one hand, one moment, and the courage to jump when it’s time.
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