Hare did not like Lion. He watched disapprovingly as Lion strutted about, destroying animal homes, eating what and where he wished, disregarding the damage he caused, roaring to hear the sound of his voice. Hare especially disliked Lion boasting, “There is no animal greater than me.”

Hare realized Elephant might be stronger than Lion but Elephant went about his business without bothering anyone. Elephant was not a fighter. If Lion decided to attack Elephant Hare thought Elephant would go away rather than stay and fight. 

One day, after hearing Lion strutting and boasting how strong he was, Hare decided he had to do something to stop Lion, but he was small, and he wasn’t a fighter. What could he do? For days he could not think of a plan. Maybe there was nothing to be done. 

After spending a lot of time finding the best grasses to eat, and easing his hunger, Hare had an idea. He jumped with joy all the way to the river where Lion was drinking. When Lion saw Hare he let out a roar that shook the earth. Trying not to show his fear, Hare approached Lion. 

Lion roared even louder as Hare came closer. When Hare didn’t show the fear he felt, Lion shouted, “Be careful. I am the mightiest and strongest of animals.”

Hare found his voice. “Yes, you are mighty and strong but there is one who is stronger than you.”

When Lion heard this, his roar was so loud and powerful it almost knocked Hare to the ground. “Take me to this creature. I will show him who is stronger.”

“I will, but you can only see him in a house.”

“Then take me to this house,” roared Lion.

Hare led Lion to the house he had prepared for him. “Go into the house and you will meet the creature stronger than you.” When Lion was inside, Hare locked the door.

Every time Lion roared, “Where is this creature?” Hare told him to wait. He would come when he was ready. When Lion grew impatient and demanded to be let out, Hare reassured Lion the creature would come.

Many days passed. There came a time when Hare called out to Lion but there was only a muffled response. Carefully Hare unlocked the door and went into the house. He found Lion lying on the floor, too weak to move. “I see your visitor has arrived,” said Hare.

Puzzled, Lion asked, “Who is he?”

“Hunger,” replied Hare.

I was studying Akido with a teacher who said very little but felt vitally connected to all of us students, gently and kindly suggesting small shifts in the way we were moving with almost no words. During a break, one man, as tall as our teacher but much heavier, began telling us how much weight he could lift. I saw our teacher watch. As the man talked, he looked at me, easily the shortest and smallest person in the class, as if to accentuate his strength and my weakness. I felt uncomfortable but remembered what our teacher said to do when we felt challenged—to breathe. I guess it helped a little.

When break was over, our teacher said we were going to learn about strength, would anyone volunteer. The man who’d boasted about how strong he was said, “Sure. I’ll do it.”

Our teacher thanked him and asked him to put out his arm. The man did. “Now I’ll try to move your arm down.” The teacher could hardly move the arm. The man grinned, as if silently boasting about his strength. The teacher tried a few times, never able to move the arm much although we could see he was trying.

Our teacher asked the man, “Would you be willing for Nancy to try?” The man laughed at the absurdity of me being able to do something our teacher couldn’t. The man agreed, shaking his head. “Is it all right if Nancy gently touches your torso from your heart to your belt?” The man nodded. Our teacher showed me on himself what he wanted me to do. 

Confused, and full of trepidation, prepared to be laughed at, I went over to the man and gently touched his torso, starting with his heart and moving to his belt. Three times. “Now,” our teacher said to the man, “lift your arm and Nancy will try to lower it.”

Oy! How did I agree to do such a thing. Still, with all eyes on me I tried to lower his arm. Much to my astonishment, to the man’s astonishment, to the class’s astonishment, but not to our teacher’s astonishment, I easily lowered his arm. 

“Try again!” ordered the man, using visible strength to keep me from lowering his arm. Once again, I easily moved it down. How was this possible? 

I looked at the teacher whose face was impassive, standing quietly, as if waiting for the explosion of unasked but felt, questions. I couldn’t help myself. “How is this possible?” I asked him. “There’s no way I’m stronger than you.”

Our teacher smiled, ignored my question, and asked me to touch the man in the reverse direction three times, then he asked the man to hold out his arm. “Now, Nancy, try to pull down the man’s arm. He was so strong I lifted myself off the ground trying to lower his arm. Impossible.

We stared at our teacher. The man asked, “How could I have strength, then no strength, then strength? I did my best to keep Nancy from being able to lower my arm and I couldn’t, then I could.”

“It’s not about strength,” said our teacher, ‘it’s about energy. When Nancy moved her arm down your torso, she took away vital energy. When she moved her arm up your torso, she restored your energy.” We were all staring at him, maybe all of them feeling the disbelief I felt. “Go ahead, try this on each other.”

We did. Same results. Moving body energy affected ability. Every time.

How have you experienced energy in your body?

I was teaching elementary school physical education, and like all teachers, had hall duty. Every
day I watched a beautiful little girl (I’ll call her Lilly) with cerebral palsy being carried up the
stairs by a big-for-his age, heavy-set boy (I’ll call him Henry). Her tone of voice was piercing,
commanding, strident—as if she were a spoiled princess talking to a servant. He meekly obeyed.

I couldn’t stand it, but everyone—teachers and staff—knew about her and said and did nothing. I don’t know what snapped inside me, but one day, as she barked commands, I walked over to them and told the boy, “You are not to carry her up the stairs until she says ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’” 

I ignored his obvious distress. I listened to her yell at me that I had no business interfering. Her parents made the arrangement. It was her tone that got me. Yes, she had a serious physical disability but she had control of her voice and her attitude. I knew interfering could cost me my job but I was a teacher and she was a beautiful child who needed help.

I told her that if she wanted him to carry her up the stairs to the wheelchair on the second floor, she had to ask nicely and thank him afterward. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she snarled. She was probably right but I repeated what I said anyway. “He’s supposed to carry me up,” she told me. “Carry me,” she said to the boy.

“No,” I told him. “You are not to carry her up until she says ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It’s time for you to go to class. I’ll take care of this.” He didn’t move. She kept telling him to carry her. Teachers have power over students. I used mine. “Go to class. Now!” He went, looking troubled.

“How am I supposed to get upstairs to my class?” she said, in an imperious tone of voice.”

I guess you’re going to have to figure that out,” I said with no sympathy and not much kindness. “You can sit. Sit up the stairs, one step at a time.”

I ignored her “I cant’s.” I told her I had a free period and would stay with her until she got to the top. And, if she asked politely, I would help her into her wheelchair. I ignored her words, her piteous looks, her defensive remarks. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t graceful. It took a long time. She managed to get to the top. “My dress is dirty,” she said when she got to the top. I congratulated her on her effort, helped her into the wheelchair, and told her teacher to excuse her lateness.

When class was over I met her at the top of the stairs. “Where’s Henry? He’s supposed to meet me and carry me down.” 

“Until you learn to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ you can get yourself up and down the stairs but I’ll stay with you until you’re down and I’ll help you into your wheelchair.”

“I hate you,” she snarled. “I’ll tell my parents and Miss Greene (the principal) how you’re treating me. She’ll fire you.”

“You could be right,” I said. “I’ll help you out of your chair.”

“I don’t need your help,” she grumbled. It was painful to watch but she managed to get off the chair and on to the steps. Painful to watch her make her way down. Painful to watch her struggle to get into her chair. Without a word she wheeled herself to her class.

I was not surprised when I signed in the next morning to be told to go to the principal’s office immediately. A substitute was teaching my classes. I was not surprised when her parents berated me for treating their daughter so badly. I was not surprised when they told me they’d have me fired, with the principal nodding in agreement.

I had nothing to lose. The child had everything to gain. “Lilly is a beautiful child who will grow up to be a beautiful woman who demands rather than asks. What’s acceptable in a child with her difficulties is not so acceptable in an adult. She needs to learn to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.”’ I ignored their interruptions and kept speaking. “Lilly can do more than she thinks, more than you know. You can fire me but I ask for one week to help her.” After an unpleasant accusatory conversation laced with threats, they agreed.

When it was time for Henry to carry Lilly up the stairs I intervened. “If you want help, Lilly, you need to ask politely.” She looked like she’d swallowed vinegar but with me telling Henry not to help until she asked, she finally muttered, “Please help me up the stairs.” He looked at me, I nodded. He carried her up the stairs. When it was time for her to be carried down, I said to Lilly, “You did really well getting yourself up and down the stairs yesterday. Let’s see how you do if Henry and I help you walk down the stairs. I promise I won’t let you fall.” She was angry. Henry was upset. I was cheerful. 

We held on to her, giving the support she needed. She walked, sort of, down the stairs. It was the first time I saw the kid in her. “I did it!” she yelled. Both Henry and I grinned.

The next morning, when she saw me, she muttered, “Please help me up the stairs, Henry.” As he was about to carry her, I suggested she let us help her up. I told her she could do a lot more than she thought and I was prepared to help her. With Henry and me taking most of her weight, she slowly made it up the stairs, a big grin on her face as we helped her into the chair.

It wasn’t easy. It didn’t happen quickly. When I next met her parents in the principal’s office, they admitted Lilly seemed happier, hadn’t had any tantrums lately, and could I please keep doing whatever it was I was doing.

By the end of the school year, with Henry’s support and a cane, Lilly was walking up and down the stairs and to her class. No second-floor wheelchair needed. Please and thank you triumphed.

When did you discover strength you didn’t know you had?

I was a graduate school student enrolled in an outing club. One of our favorite activities was rock
climbing. Usually, I was paired with another woman or a small man but one day, a friend was
visiting me and he insisted we pair up. I protested. “You’re about a foot taller and around 100
pounds heavier than me. How am I supposed to save you if you fall?”

Will laughed at my protests. “You’re strong. You can manage,” he retorted, echoing what my
father said to me throughout my life, even when it was pretty clear I couldn’t.

“This is ridiculous. We need to be more evenly matched.” My words were ignored as more than
one person pointed out everyone else was paired up. If he thought I was strong enough to belay
him (stop his fall) then what was my problem?

“Enough talk,” said the group leader, “let’s rope up and get going.”

I glared at Will. He grinned. “Nancy, if I think you’re strong enough why are you acting as if
you’re a weak woman?” He knew me well enough to know how I’d react.

“Fine! If you want to die falling down rocks because of your stupidity, fine! Let’s go” He
laughed. His obvious lack of concern did nothing to assuage my worries.

He climbed up. I climbed up. We drank water. Enjoyed the gorgeous fall afternoon. I tried not to
think about his going down with me at the top holding the rope that could save him from death.

“I’ll start,” he said. I nodded, shivering despite wearing a warm canvas jacket, sweatshirt, and
camisole.

Even though I wasn’t holding his weight, I couldn’t stop shaking so I found a bit of rock
embedded in the base rock and put my shoes against it for better balance. I took deep breaths
trying to ease my worry.

Suddenly I heard a cry. “Falling!” The rope jerked in my hand. I held on as tight as I could,
hoping the bit of rock would hold my feet. The rope slipped in my sweaty hands despite my
gripping it as tightly as I could. “Falling!!” I heard again.

Using every bit of strength and will and hope and energy I managed to stop the rope from
slipping though my hands. I couldn’t see what was happening unless I moved and I was too
afraid to move.

After an interminable amount of time I heard him yell, “I’m good. You did it.” The rope was
slack in my hand.

When I looked, Will was safely on the ground, grinning. The rope had slashed through my
jacket, sweatshirt, and camisole, tore the strap of my bra, and left a burn mark on my skin.
Feeling relief, pride, fury, and frustration at not being listened to, I made my way down.

“I told you you could do it,” he crowed.

I wanted to punch him. Scream how close he’d come to falling against the rocks. Yell at his
refusal to pair up with someone his size. I couldn’t. His words were echoed by the group who
were quick to congratulate me. That the rope had burned through my clothes and skin made no
difference. I’d saved him. According to the group this was all that mattered.

How do you define strength?