I have been enjoying watching my 18-month-old grandson walk around our home and find heavy objects to pick up. I have a thing for rocks, so I have lots of heavy rocks all around my home as door jams keeping the doors from blowing open, or simply as objects of natural beauty. My grandson will go and stand in front of a rock, bend down and with all of his energy lift the rock. I am often holding my breath as I run over to keep my hand underneath so there’s no chance the rock will fall on his feet. But he is standing there with pride, enjoyment and deep satisfaction. Each day he expands his search, finding heavier and heavier objects to lift, discovering his own strength in the lifting.
This reminds me of a class that Charlotte gave at the end of the nine-month study group I participated in when I was 22 years old. We spent three months in Mexico, three months in Santa Barbara, California and three months on Monhegan Island, Maine. We all traveled separately from place to place. On the way to Monhegan Island, Charlotte was in a car accident. She broke her hip and had to be hospitalized. She gave instructions for all of us to go to the island and work together on our own until she could get there. But she couldn’t stand not being there with us. So as soon as she could, she left the hospital against doctor’s orders and somehow made her way to Maine. I remember seeing her arrive on the ferry lying on a stretcher. She saw all of us gathered at the dock and this tiny little hand moved up to wave to us.
For the first week or two, we met in her home while she lay on a bed, or sat up for a while speaking with us. Then, as she healed more, we would carry her on a stretcher to and from the little one-room school house where our classes were being held. She was too fragile to be moved in a wheelchair or even in a golf cart over the bumpy dirt road. Little by little she got stronger. At some point she was strong enough to sit in a golf cart and be driven up to the schoolhouse. One morning, when she was stronger but still fragile, she had someone bring a huge rock into the class, and asked us to come up one at a time to lift the rock. She watched each of us with growing disgust, and finally she got up and demonstrated how to lift the rock. She found us dull, lifeless and full of effort. I watched her and was furious at the risk she was taking. But I still remember her, this tiny woman lifting this big rock with gusto and energy. Her energy moving freely rather than constricted with effort.
So the question is how can we find the gusto and aliveness in lifting what we can lift? Not overdoing, not holding back, but exploring with the innocence of my grandchild, meeting what’s there to be lifted and discovering the strength of our own natural responsiveness.
