To
get to the pagoda, we had to march through a Chinese village. Our tour guide
warned us to ignore the gauntlet of street peddlers and beggars, then he asked
us to turn on our voice boxes so that he could lecture as we walked. I wasn’t
feeling well, so I was already grumpy about the strenuous trek ahead.
Thirty
minutes later, we reached a long suspension bridge and beyond it was the
pagoda. We all started across, and the more we jumped and stomped, the more it
moved and swayed – not a good thing for those of us who suffer from vertigo and
were already feeling queasy. I yelled at all the frolickers in my mean, teacher
voice, and everyone made it to the opposite side a little more subdued.
Our
guide rattled on about the wonders of the pagoda and how nowadays visitors
approach via the bridge and the easy walkway, but the monks who once owned the
well-protected fortress had to climb the rock face using only hand and toe
holds.
According
to legend, those who venture inside and attempt the many steps will achieve
heaven. He warned though that because of
the heavy flow of tourist traffic, once we started up there would be no turning
back and no slowing down; everyone had to move in one direction.
Several
of my fellow travelers sneaked peeks at me but avoided eye contact in case I
yelled at them again. I could guess what they were thinking – maybe I should
stay back and wait for the group by the suspension bridge.
I
don’t remember much about the guide’s lecture - gods, legends, blah-blah-blah –
(I was concentrating on the formidable task before me), but I do remember the
dark, the dampness, and the narrow, itty-bitty steps. Heat, illness, claustrophobia, and my vertigo
- I was in full panic mode, but no one calls me a coward. The steps got
narrower, shorter (only the tips of my shoes fit on each rung), and more slippery
the closer to heaven we got.
I.
Was. In. Hell.
I
ended up doing the last few landings on my hands and knees. I didn’t cry but I think I cussed. (I know I
was thinking it.) I don’t know if I imagined it or not, but someone used a
shoulder and both hands on my rear a couple of times. I hope it was HoneyBunch. I remember him talking
to me and urging me on. God bless you, sweetheart.
I
was so, SO happy when I hit sunshine at the top that I wanted to kiss everyone in
sight (even the bridge bouncers), but I recovered some of my shredded dignity
and resisted the impulse. When it was
time to head back (and my BP was quasi-normal again), I inched my way across
the suspension bridge. It was a breeze
in comparison to what I had survived inside the pagoda.
HoneyBunch
keeps telling me that he was so proud that I persevered through my fears, and I
tell him that the metaphor of the pagoda steps is not lost on me.
Many
of us will reach heaven on our hands and knees, yelling and kicking all the way. Though we are dependent on the kindness and
urging of others, in the end we each have to achieve it on our own.
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