Every day we are fighting battles. Today I lose one.
Class is great fun, as it is every day. We follow up on threads, about the monastery and about Pawson. Tate shows us the work of an artist named Walter Pichler who creates absolutely brilliant drawings, who has “an incorruptible instinct for effects.” We talk about the world of posters. Tate shows us one for a festival in Bosnia that takes place every year, even when shells were falling during the conflict there 15 years ago. People still came out.
But amidst all of this interesting discussion, I am nervous. I am nervous because I know in the afternoon, we are visiting a water tower. And we are going to go to the top. People are afraid of some pretty stupid things. I have a paralyzing fear of heights. The idea of losing my balance or having the floor fall out from under me while I’m up any more than 50 feet or so makes me dizzy with anxiety.
But maybe this tower won’t be so bad. It won’t be very high, or it won’t make you feel like you’re high up. I hope upon hope that I can deal with this. I would hate for this to ruin my experience.
I see the tower in the distance from the tram. The way this water tower is built more resembles a lighthouse, except wider in diameter. I size up the tower from the outside, and decide it can’ be taller than the Currituck lighthouse, which I’ve climbed before without any problem. I gain some confidence.
We get off the tram, and walk up to the entrance. Big double doors open up to a cavernous space. The holding tank part of the tower is in the center of the room, and a spiral walkway hugs the outer wall. It is a shallow ascent. I get nervous. Just before we start to go up, the lady who is giving us the tour of the tower asks if any of us are afraid of heights, because it is “very high.” I raise my hand, but declare that I am going up anyway.
And so we begin.
I am one of the first up the walk, banking on a sort of false confidence that one might use when standing up for a girlfriend who has talked her way into a position where one has to do so. I am not thrilled, but I’m doing it, because I don’t want to appear weak, and because I want to prove myself that I can do this.
We go up. Five meters. Ten meters. The ground is getting further away. I stare straight ahead, or at the walk in front of me. I try not to look down at the ground so far below, but it is nearly impossible.
Fifteen meters. We are getting to a steep staircase that leads to another floor. I try to tell myself that if I can get to the next level, I’ll be fine. It doesn’t work. I start to panic. Vertigo starts to set in, and all I can think about is getting back down to the ground where it is safe. I hold out as long as I can.
Then I go back down, walking past everyone, all of my friends whose respect I value so much and have worked hard to gain in the past few weeks. Nathan tries to encourage me to go further. “I can’t do it,” I say meekly.
I spend the next twenty minutes or so at the bottom of the tower, humiliated, mortified. After I get through the initial jitters of being up so high, a heavy sense of disappointment sets in. It hits hard, and I am all alone. I hear everyone going up, to the next floor, then I hear nothing. It is quiet and I am left alone to reflect. What is the nature of this fear? Why am I afraid? I keep thinking I can reason my way out of it somehow. But then, maybe the answers to life’s seemingly solvable problems lie in the nature of our seemingly rational fears. It can’t be so easy.
Reason dictates that you are not going to fall from a height unless you yourself make it happen. However, reason fails to provide me any comfort from my anxiety. Fear is based in our emotions. In my case, the roots are sown deep.
After everyone comes down from the top, we move on to a reservoir, which is part of the water system. Along the way, people ask to make sure I’m okay, but I disregard them with the complete anger and disgust I have for myself. We get to the reservoir and Tate comes up to me. He tells me not to be so hard on myself. Somehow, I take comfort in this, and I try to enjoy the rest of the day. The reservoir itself is located underground. It is a massive facility, stretching out into the darkness. Catwalks crisscross the 3-meter-deep pools. It is cold. I feel relief.
In the evening, we have a special treat. We go out to a heuriger (wine garden) on the outskirts of town. It is beautiful. Our host, Josef, greets us with boundless energy. Formerly the mayor of his town and farmer (currently just a vintner), he is enthusiastic and friendly. He also is apparently a philosopher. He dispenses wisdom as well as he makes wine (which is delicious). After a tour of his vineyard and a wine tasting, we go back to his restaurant on the premises, where we all eat wonderful food prepared by his wife, and drink the good wine made from grapes harvested nearby. “When you drink wine,” he says, “you drink the grapes, which grow on the vines, which take in the sun. So, you are drinking sunbeams.” I could get used to that.
We eat and drink until after the sun goes down, at which point Hermann takes out some cigars and dispenses them to the guys. He then proceeds to tell us jokes. What makes them so funny is the delivery—he employs voices, gestures, and has great timing. It is the product of growing up in a household where jokes are told and stories spun.
Scott and I get home that night to find Tyler, my friend from home, waiting for us. She has come to visit Venice with myself, Kevan, and Holly. It has been a long day for all of us. The sting of the afternoon is still tender, but the heuriger has provided solace. I look forward to the next few days.
Something Josef said sticks with me. “I live my life and the time goes.”
Class is great fun, as it is every day. We follow up on threads, about the monastery and about Pawson. Tate shows us the work of an artist named Walter Pichler who creates absolutely brilliant drawings, who has “an incorruptible instinct for effects.” We talk about the world of posters. Tate shows us one for a festival in Bosnia that takes place every year, even when shells were falling during the conflict there 15 years ago. People still came out.
But amidst all of this interesting discussion, I am nervous. I am nervous because I know in the afternoon, we are visiting a water tower. And we are going to go to the top. People are afraid of some pretty stupid things. I have a paralyzing fear of heights. The idea of losing my balance or having the floor fall out from under me while I’m up any more than 50 feet or so makes me dizzy with anxiety.
But maybe this tower won’t be so bad. It won’t be very high, or it won’t make you feel like you’re high up. I hope upon hope that I can deal with this. I would hate for this to ruin my experience.
I see the tower in the distance from the tram. The way this water tower is built more resembles a lighthouse, except wider in diameter. I size up the tower from the outside, and decide it can’ be taller than the Currituck lighthouse, which I’ve climbed before without any problem. I gain some confidence.
We get off the tram, and walk up to the entrance. Big double doors open up to a cavernous space. The holding tank part of the tower is in the center of the room, and a spiral walkway hugs the outer wall. It is a shallow ascent. I get nervous. Just before we start to go up, the lady who is giving us the tour of the tower asks if any of us are afraid of heights, because it is “very high.” I raise my hand, but declare that I am going up anyway.
And so we begin.
I am one of the first up the walk, banking on a sort of false confidence that one might use when standing up for a girlfriend who has talked her way into a position where one has to do so. I am not thrilled, but I’m doing it, because I don’t want to appear weak, and because I want to prove myself that I can do this.
We go up. Five meters. Ten meters. The ground is getting further away. I stare straight ahead, or at the walk in front of me. I try not to look down at the ground so far below, but it is nearly impossible.
Fifteen meters. We are getting to a steep staircase that leads to another floor. I try to tell myself that if I can get to the next level, I’ll be fine. It doesn’t work. I start to panic. Vertigo starts to set in, and all I can think about is getting back down to the ground where it is safe. I hold out as long as I can.
Then I go back down, walking past everyone, all of my friends whose respect I value so much and have worked hard to gain in the past few weeks. Nathan tries to encourage me to go further. “I can’t do it,” I say meekly.
I spend the next twenty minutes or so at the bottom of the tower, humiliated, mortified. After I get through the initial jitters of being up so high, a heavy sense of disappointment sets in. It hits hard, and I am all alone. I hear everyone going up, to the next floor, then I hear nothing. It is quiet and I am left alone to reflect. What is the nature of this fear? Why am I afraid? I keep thinking I can reason my way out of it somehow. But then, maybe the answers to life’s seemingly solvable problems lie in the nature of our seemingly rational fears. It can’t be so easy.
Reason dictates that you are not going to fall from a height unless you yourself make it happen. However, reason fails to provide me any comfort from my anxiety. Fear is based in our emotions. In my case, the roots are sown deep.
After everyone comes down from the top, we move on to a reservoir, which is part of the water system. Along the way, people ask to make sure I’m okay, but I disregard them with the complete anger and disgust I have for myself. We get to the reservoir and Tate comes up to me. He tells me not to be so hard on myself. Somehow, I take comfort in this, and I try to enjoy the rest of the day. The reservoir itself is located underground. It is a massive facility, stretching out into the darkness. Catwalks crisscross the 3-meter-deep pools. It is cold. I feel relief.
In the evening, we have a special treat. We go out to a heuriger (wine garden) on the outskirts of town. It is beautiful. Our host, Josef, greets us with boundless energy. Formerly the mayor of his town and farmer (currently just a vintner), he is enthusiastic and friendly. He also is apparently a philosopher. He dispenses wisdom as well as he makes wine (which is delicious). After a tour of his vineyard and a wine tasting, we go back to his restaurant on the premises, where we all eat wonderful food prepared by his wife, and drink the good wine made from grapes harvested nearby. “When you drink wine,” he says, “you drink the grapes, which grow on the vines, which take in the sun. So, you are drinking sunbeams.” I could get used to that.
We eat and drink until after the sun goes down, at which point Hermann takes out some cigars and dispenses them to the guys. He then proceeds to tell us jokes. What makes them so funny is the delivery—he employs voices, gestures, and has great timing. It is the product of growing up in a household where jokes are told and stories spun.
Scott and I get home that night to find Tyler, my friend from home, waiting for us. She has come to visit Venice with myself, Kevan, and Holly. It has been a long day for all of us. The sting of the afternoon is still tender, but the heuriger has provided solace. I look forward to the next few days.
Something Josef said sticks with me. “I live my life and the time goes.”
Comments
Measure your life on your successes, not your failures. Think of all the towers and castles and church domes you have ascended and the special treat that awaited you when you arrived. I continue to be impressed at how you move through your fears and always come out stronger and more confident for having had that courage. Keep it up!
You are amazing.
Love you and love your blog!