Sharla Dawn Gorder

Every year at Christmas I have written a letter—a love letter of sorts—to a group of women whom I would be lost without.  Truly, they have often been my reason for showing up in life, when I’d really rather hide out in that dark little room under the stairs.

We’ve been exercising together at the same gym (Gulf Breeze Aerobics and Fitness) at the same time on the same days now for twelve years.  I’m a Certified Personal Trainer but found that teaching groups was way more fun.  In my class, we go through all the decades of studio exercise in an hour—a kind of aerobics montage, and it’s a hoot.  We start out in the 70’s à la Jane Fonda; step it up for the 80’s on the bench; jab, hook, cross and kick for our 90’s throwback; pump it up hip-hop style with a little “krumpin’” and “jerkin’” for the 2000s’; and mellow it all out with some good old yoga that’s feeling new again for so many this decade.

That’s what I offer them anyway—a crazy mash-up of exercise styles in 60 minutes or less. What they offer me is so much more.  This is truly one of those things in life that gives back way more than is invested.

Every year, I try to express my appreciation to them.  Every year I fall a little short and have to try again the following December.  Here is 2015’s attempt:

December 15, 2015

What I’m learning…

The grass is green enough.  The sky is blue enough.  My belly is full enough.  My life is good enough.  How has it taken me nearly 57 years to learn this?

It is the middle of December and I’m sitting on my upper deck in my “magic chair” without a sweater, waiting for the sunrise.  It is a lovely, mild winter morning. I am happy.

I often come sit in this beach chair—a funky little plastic chaise lounge—whenever I have something important to say, but don’t yet know how to say it.  Thomas Mann wrote, “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”  That cinches it; I must really be a writer.  And it is my honor to write you this letter.  You are my green grass, my blue sky, my full belly, my good life.  Thank you.

I am waiting for the sun again this morning, and, oh my, here it comes!  And that familiar soundtrack serenades me from the inside of my head, the inside of my soul—“Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright.”

And I want you all to know that it is.  It’s alright.  It truly is.  I’m alright.  You all have held me in your thoughts and your prayers and your arms, and let me know that I am safe.  I am cherished.  I am valued.  Many of you have hugged me close and acknowledged what a rough year this has been—having lost both Mom and Dad so close together.  And yes, accepting death is never easy, but I want you to know that it hasn’t been a bad year.  And though it almost seems blasphemous to write it, I will write it—I has been a very good year.

And you are why.

This is what I’ve learned this year—I need footprints.

Back in November, after those big storms that brought the Gulf right up to the walkover, I couldn’t wait to get back out on the beach with Shuba.  We headed out just before sunrise the morning after and stopped at the edge of the wooden path overlooking the shore.

The beach was a vast, white, featureless plateau, unmarred by a single footprint or track.  The angry storm surge the night before had ironed out every divot, every dent.  It was beautiful in its way, but kind of eerie.

We stepped into the sand, and it was as hard as concrete.  It surprised Shuba and she looked up at me in that quizzical, head-cocked way that dogs do, then bounded off down toward the water to torment ghost crabs.

I took it all in.  There was a time when a beach scene as desolate as this one seemed romantic to me.  I was a moony-eyed teenager then.  I didn’t value footprints.  I scoffed at the tourists who made them.  I wanted the beach all to myself.  To brood.  Ha!  That was back when I had nothing real to brood about.

Now that I do, I want those footprints back.  I need evidence of life, of love, of people.  And while I perhaps enjoy solitude more than most, I know that I need fellowship, friendship, kinship—every ship that sails.  I need you all.

During a particularly difficult time in my life a few years ago I wrote in my journal, “Disconnection is fatal—taken to the extreme edge, as in addiction, depression, madness.  Detachment always ends in the death of something.  Sometimes, the death of everything.”  This was not good news to me even as I realized it.  Believe it or not, I’m something of an introvert by nature.  And hard times leave me longing for the underside of my bed.  It’s cool there.  And dark.  And no-one can find me.

But you draw me out to play.  This class, perhaps more than anything.  No matter what I’m going through, this is a safe, wholesome, embracing place to be for me.  I hope it is for you too.

I need footprints.   The desolate shoreline after storms may seem restful and sublime, but it is hard beneath my feet, and barren.  That morning, even the crab holes were gone, and Shuba was devastated.  Still, we put our paws in the sand and started walking toward the sunrise.  And that’s just what I have to do, put one paw in front of the other and move toward something lovely.

You all are something lovely.  You soften the sand beneath my feet, and let me know that we are all on this beach together, strolling toward another sunrise.  I know we are.  I can see your footprints even when I can’t see you.  Thank you.