Stepping Off in Costa Rica

 

Stepping Off

 

I placed a check mark underneath canopy tour.  It sounds so benign.  I abruptly walk away, my heart thundering in my chest, a queasy sensation in my stomach.  I’m in Costa Rica on a writer’s retreat.  I had promised myself before leaving home that I’d zip line, ignoring the cortisol in my body that screamed “don’t”.

 

I’ve always been afraid of jumping off.  Swimming lessons as a child.  My first dive was effortless, then my brain kicked in and I registered that I was launching myself into the unknown, into that space of nothingness, and I panicked.  My patient instructor cajoled, reassured, repeatedly told me I can do this.  I knew how to dive.  I did.  He was right.  I would assume the pose and for all the on-lookers, my six year old peers, and my disappointed mother, it would seem that this time, at last, I would dive.  At the last second I would jump into the water, my instructor turning his head to avoid the splash of water.

 

I’m attracted to adventure.  I routinely place myself in adventure’s way, and then midstream my brain catches up, I register what I’m doing and the fear, if not terror, sets in.  I watch the crew dive off the roof of our cruise ship in the Galapagos.  They’re transformed into little boys, calling out to each other, hooting their delight.  I scramble up on the roof to join them.  Their eyes widen to see a gringa on the roof. Perched on the edge of the listing ship, I freeze.  My brain kicks in. Ultimately, I scramble down to the next level and finally jump – the sickening river of terror thundering through my veins overshadows any sense of enjoyment.

 

I’m in Malaysia and read about a suspension bridge strung across the jungle.  I know immediately I want to do this.  I take a bus, then a tram car up a mountain.  I first have lunch on a hotel balcony that has a hand printed sign to be aware of the snakes.  I look up towards the vines above my head, and stare at the bright green and yellow snake that is taking in his?her? afternoon sun.  My breath catches.  I’m grateful I’m not scared of snakes.

After lunch I walk a short way and pay a pittance to obtain entrance onto the suspension bridge.  I’m the only walker.  Halfway across the bridge my brain kicks in. I’m on a swaying rope bridge, eight inches in width, kilometers off the ground, a bridge that no one tests or maintains.  My racing brain catalogues the amount of humidity, rain, that a tropical environment endures.  I stare at the girth of the rope, calculate rates of deterioration, my legs shake so badly I wonder if I may just collapse and tumble off crashing through the canopy I’m supposed to be oohing and awing over.   I think about my family, friends, who have no idea where I am, what I’m doing.  How long it will be before they discover I’m dead.  I realize that either way I am walking back to the start (the walk of shame) or finishing this walk that has all of a sudden been labeled interminable by my brain. But walk I must, remaining frozen is not an option. I finish.  I make it, if I had less pride I would have kissed the ground, it seemed a little too dramatic.

 

I’m at home, rural northern B.C., three years into a job where I provide counselling to Aboriginal children who have been permanently removed from their homes.  Survivors of neglect, trauma, abandonment, little ones whose stories shatter my trauma seasoned heart.  There is a child I have counselled for three years, who due to her experiences of abuse and neglect plus ten failed placements, fundamentally believes she is bad and unlovable.  Her whole life, she has never lived anywhere for longer than two years.

 

I step off into the unknown.  At fifty-two years of age, I let go of my safe, independent life and apply to be her parent. In two months time, I will be a single parent to a twelve year old girl who I have loved for years.  My brain will kick in, and I know to face my fears and carry on anyway.

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