Rediscovering My Strength – that time I made success my only option

Deep breath in, let it out. I can do this.

I concentrated on the ground ahead of me, one step, two steps, now three… I can do this.

The earth rose sharply ahead of me. My right foot slipped a bit in the slick clay mud. I glanced around, looking for something to grab on to. I should have stayed closer to the trees.

I searched the ground, there had to be something I could brace against, or something to give me traction. I lurched forward, willing my feet to inch up the rain-slicked clay bank. The hill so steep now, my upper body was less than an arms length away. This may have been a bad idea.

I tried to inch my right foot forward again. Just then, both feet slipped out from under me, I fell flat, face down, and slid back toward the creek…

[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." data-large-file="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." src="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." alt="" class="wp-image-683" />Photo by Allan Mas on Pexels.com

There was a time when I hiked regularly. Perhaps a younger, thinner, stronger, and fitter version of me could have made this same trek with little difficulty. I’d never know since I’d not felt any of those qualities in what seemed like quite a long time. In fact, it was a desire to reclaim myself and figure out where exactly my life was going that had brought me to a little 127 year old cabin in McKee, Kentucky in the first place.

The cabin had no internet, no television, and no cell reception–exactly what I was looking for. Of course it did have electricity, running water, and air conditioning–I mean, come on–I’m not Laura Ingalls Wilder. I’d found the listing for the Lakes Creek Cabin on Airbnb, it seemed like a perfect chance to get away and clear my head after an extremely difficult first half of 2021. I packed up a few books, my journals, and some colored pencils–my plan: write, read, draw, hike, meditate.

(Lakes Creek Cabin, McKee, KY)

Upon arriving at the cabin, I immediately felt as if a part of me had always belonged there. Boedy and I settled in easily. We went for a hike first thing, then I read on the porch until dark with Boedy at my feet. That night–journaling, drawing, and more reading. Perfection.

(Boedy)

The next morning, my head felt clearer than it had in a while, and my body felt light and energetic. I sat on the porch, meditated in the early morning sun, and then, back to my book for a while. The first thing I “missed” when I arrived was the lack of access to a weather report of any kind. Something I noted as I looked up at the sky, my phone resting useless in my pocket. But I’d grown up without cell phones and computers, I knew how to tell if it was going to rain. I’m not helpless, I reminded myself. It had been cloudy all morning but didn’t seem stormy. I’d likely see rain, but nothing severe.

I’d hiked about twenty-five minutes before the sky opened up above me and a warm rain fell, quickly soaking me. Boedy trotted on ahead, seemingly oblivious to the rain. I knew he would tell by his actions if there was severe weather in the area. But the dog continued on, never giving the rain a thought. I decided to keep going.

(Boedy, coming back to see why I’m so slow!)

The rain was invigorating, I felt renewed, as if layers of heavy and suffocating life had washed away from me. The earth sang all around me, each rain drop bringing forth a beautiful melody of sound, smell, and vibrant color. My steps lightened, I felt like I was waking up from a long, dark winter, my soul stirred within me and a smile spread across my face.

(after the rain)

The rain had let up by the time I reached the creek and worked my way across the stepping stones. Feeling pretty accomplished, I started up the steep bank, the trail continued on far above my head. I can do this.

(creek crossing, be careful!)

I took a deep breath and let it out. Carefully, I brought my right foot forward and under me, then the left… swooosh! both feet slipped out from under me. My body slid several feet back down toward the creek, stopping when my feet hit a moss-covered patch of ground. I hadn’t climbed high enough to be in danger of death (the trail was really not that difficult or dangerous, except that it was so slick from the rain), but I certainly could be in trouble if I broke a leg or something like that. It was just me and Boedy, no one would even come looking for us until the next day at the earliest. I tried again, and again my feet slipped out from under me. This could be a problem.

I lay on the hillside considering my options. I could slide the rest of the way down and go back the way I came–the bank on the other side was not as slick or steep. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Something had been awakened within me since I’d arrived at the cabin. It was a feeling with a faint and pleasant familiarity, like the feeling you get when you pick up a well-loved book you haven’t read in many years. I can do this.

The path up the hill was clay mud mixed with loose stones, I knew I’d never get my boots to grab hold of it. Carefully, I drew my body up so I was on my hands and knees. Digging in with the toe of each boot, I pushed each leg forward, bit by bit, hand over hand, I clawed at the rocks and buried my fingers in the clay–pushing and pulling with all my strength, I slowly inched up the incline.

A few yards from the top, my knees were screaming with pain from the rocks and the unfamiliar pressure. But I would not give up. Push and pull, push and pull, a few more feet to go. Boedy stood above me (show off), watching my progress, wondering why on earth I was so unbelievably slow. Push and pull, push and pull, push and pull. I finally made it to the top. Victory!

(soaked, filthy, exhausted, happy)

I felt like a new woman. Or, maybe like that adventurous child I had once been, before life happened. Sure, my body was still 44 and way out of shape, but my spirit was renewed, and with it, my mind. What other obstacles could I conquer? If before this trip, you had shown me a picture of the hill I climbed, and told me I would scale it on my hands and knees–I would have said yeah, right! Maybe at one time I could have done it, but not now. No way, no how. But I would have been wrong. Because, as physically ill-prepared as I may have been for that challenge, I had something else even more important–the will to try and an absolute refusal to give up. Success was the only option I gave myself. No plan B.

I returned to the cabin wearing mud-covered clothes like a badge of honor. Soaked with rain and sweat, my hair stuck to my face, my knees bruised and sore, I’d never felt more alive.

As I sit here now writing this blog post a month later, the significance of that experience is suddenly very clear. I am currently standing at the bottom of another steep hill. At the top is something I’ve never had before–a published memoir, a new career, and a life that not only accurately reflects, but also honors my authentic self. It’s a terrifying climb. Looking at it right now, I don’t know if I have what it takes to make it. But then I remind myself–I do–I have the will to try and an adamant refusal to give up. Success is the only option I give myself. Onward and upward. I can do this.

Thank you for being a part of my journey. Peace.

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