The Ugly Pictures

I know my takeaway isn't supposed to be a purchased experience. But you'll have to trust that without going out of my comfort zone, I wouldn't have had it. Two years ago, I had the opportunity to travel with an adventure group to an isolated part of the Grand Canyon called Havasupai. A group of friends, fellow teachers, and students of mine stayed for several fun-filled and relaxing days, hiking, swimming, laughing, and spending time making new friends. One night we even hiked up to an abandoned mine where the darkness obliterated everything and even the rushing sound of neighboring Havasu Falls was obscured. The highlight of the trip was an eight-mile hike deeper into the canyon where very few people ever visit. The descent down a neighboring waterfall is quite physically demanding, which prevents an abundance of visitors and also helps to keep the area quite pristine. It was an exceptionally hot day, and our group made a joint decision to keep to the water path on the way back. The guides admitted that they had never gone this way, but we had faith in their honing skills to return us safely to the camp later. Soon, we happened upon a most unexpected waterfall. Partially obscured by mesquite trees, the rock itself was a dome-shaped, grey travertine formation rounded outward, and the water falling from it ranged from soft drops on the sides to a raging downpour toward the center. Most of us could not resist the lure of standing at the heart of such an intense natural force. The power of that part of the waterfall was like a heavy, muscle-beating shower pounding every inch of flesh; my hair became a melted mess, snaking down my face into my eyes and nose, my clothes clinging to my body, obliterating everything else around until it was just me and the water falling helter-skelter on my skin, and I stayed there for several minutes, just feeling the rush. As I stepped away from the waterfall, there a few feet away in the water stood my friend Cindy, a wide smile on her face, her body in the same condition, clothes clinging heavily from the waterlog of the falls, and for some reason, I wanted to capture the moment, so I raised my camera, and so did Cindy at the same time, both aiming at one another, each daring the other, "Go ahead, take it!,” the other laughing, half screaming, “No! No way!” the rushing sound of the waterfall still urging us on. "Well, we have to make a pact," I offered. "No one sees this. PROMISE? It WILL NOT end up in the school yearbook!” I laughed.

“OK,” she agreed. The ugly pictures are for our eyes only!”

“One, two, three…” Click! We took the pictures, hers of me standing there in the river, beads of water falling off my skin, clothes clinging at lopsided angles, hair dripping, my smile spontaneous and genuine, Cindy the same, waterlogged clothes stuck messily to every curve, a smile so wide it opened up the universe.

That moment remains the only time in my life that I have ever not been self-conscious of my looks. I did not care about how my makeup might have been smeared or my hair wasn’t looking so great, or my body wasn’t in the best physical condition; I was just, one-hundred percent myself, free of society’s expectations for me, awkward, toothy, curvaceous, and so damned full of energy and joy and the essence of enjoying the pleasure of the moment! If after death, we are freed from the physical prisons of our bodies, if that is part of the heaven we seek, I believe that on that day I was allowed a fleeting preview of what that might feel like. That's my earth memory that I will take with me. The one moment I've had of simply feeling joyful and alive and free.