On Sunday, I was given the opportunity to perform my writing aloud for Writers Read at The Cell theater in New York City. It was a fantastic experience. Reading my work aloud felt both new and not-new; while I’ve never read my writing for a paying audience (and live Facebook/podcast viewers), I’ve had practice reading for small groups of fellow writers, and I’ve certainly spent enough time on stage as a musician and a conductor.

I was initially much more nervous about meeting the other writers than I was about speaking, but those nerves were calmed almost the moment I walked in the door for rehearsal. There was no feeling of competition. I felt completely supported by the dozen fellow writers, who all gave and received praise with extreme grace and mutual respect. Although there was a unifying theme for the performance, all of the writing styles were enjoyably diverse. It was an honor to be a member of that group for an afternoon.

I’m hoping to post the video once it becomes available on YouTube, but for now, I’d like to share my essay below. The theme was “The Great Outdoors,” and the piece had to be read in under five minutes, so it’s rather short. Both the theme and the word count limit were a challenge for me, so I felt great pride that the essay was accepted.

The Gondola Ride

“It’s just a wall,” the adventure park instructor said. The impatience in his voice, strained from guiding eighty overexcited fifth graders through the climb, penetrated my fog of fear. But I knew it wasn’t just a wall; it was a test of courage. And I was about to fail.

“Just take it one toe-hold at a time,” the instructor said as he hooked me up to the belaying line. At the base of the wall, I looked straight up. The top grazed the gray-slate sky. Goosebumps popped out all over my body, and I began to shake. They were making me climb up to the sky!

“She doesn’t have to go,” one of my teachers said.

“She has to try,” the instructor insisted. And then, to me, “Do you want to be the only one who didn’t even try?”

No self-respecting ten-year-old would ever answer yes to that question, so I reached up and grasped a plastic rock in my hand. Behind me, kids and teachers shouted encouragement, but the more I reached and pulled myself upward, the more the buzz of fear crescendoed in my ears. The belaying line felt too slack. Did I trust the instructor to save me if I slipped? I grasped one more rock, and then I broke.

“I can’t, I can’t,” I sobbed, looking down. The ground seemed so far away, the top of the wall further still.

The instructor had to guide me down then, disappointment on his face. He’d wanted to make the frightened girl conquer her terror. But the experience only cemented my fear of heights, encouraging me to refuse any experience that took me from the safety of the ground.

Twenty years later, I was on an Alaskan cruise with my husband Nick. In Juneau, we’d booked a gondola ride up the side of Mount Roberts. From the comfort of our living room couch as we’d debated shore excursions, Nick had convinced me that we shouldn’t travel all the way to Alaska only to see the view from ground level. But as we disembarked from the ship and spotted Mount Roberts, the goosebumps popped out all over my body, and I felt the familiar rush in my ears. The mountain was much higher than I had anticipated; unlike the rounded peaks I was used to around my Hudson Valley home, we couldn’t see the summit from the ground. I imagined the gondola cable snapping, and my husband and me rolling down the mountain in a beat-up red box.

“I can’t,” I whispered, echoing my ten-year-old’s words from that day on the Wall. But Nick wanted to go, and I couldn’t let him down.

I clutched the safety rail as the car began to glide upward. Nick put his hands on either side of mine, his reassuring chest against my back. I felt his breaths slow the tempo of my own. “You can do this,” he murmured in my ear. “Now open your eyes.”

The world spread out before me. On the opposite bank of the river, the mountains were so densely tree-packed that they appeared to be covered in a fine, dusky moss. The river itself was the clear turquoise of pure glacier runoff, and our cruise ship floated on it like a child’s toy. The city of Juneau spread grid-like out from the foothills of the mountains. Passing through the cloudy mist below the summit, we saw our first bald eagle, perched on the scratchy peak of a tall pine.

We disembarked to take photos, and as my feet touched solid ground, I noticed that all physical signs of my anxiety had disappeared. It hadn’t been the height that I’d feared, but the lack of trust that I’d arrive on the ground again safely. With Nick beside me, and the majesty of the view distracting me, I had put that fear in its place.

I squeezed my husband’s hand, then let go. It was time to take some pictures.