Finding Sarah

by Sarah Ferguson

  “But why did I make so many mistakes?”

  “It’s a matter of intention,” he explained. “Were you trying to sabotage your marriage? Were you trying to sabotage your reputation?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “So the intention was not evil?”

  “Correct.”

  “That has to matter to you.”

  “Okay.”

  In typical Dr. Phil fashion, he told me, “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming. This has to matter to you.”

  “I caused Andrew great pain, and I would never cause anyone great pain intentionally. But I caused him pain. How do I live with that?”

  “He has healed, has he not? And he has forgiven you?”

  “Yes, completely.”

  “And he loves you?”

  “Yes, completely. But leaving Andrew was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Will you ever reconcile with your ex-husband? Will you ever live together as husband and wife?”

  “I don’t know. We are a family and we always will be. He is a great, great man. We do have this extraordinary love. And the girls benefit from it.”

  More Dr. Phil advice tumbled out: “You’re always talking about things in your life you have blown. Stop adding to the list. Instead, look at all the opportunities you have created for yourself. You have the responsibility to claim those opportunities. Stop sitting on the sidelines feeling sorry for yourself. Tell yourself, ‘I could not be more proud, and mean it from the core of your soul. In Texas we call that cowboying up. So cowboy up, girl. There is life ahead of you.”

  Dr. Phil gave me plenty to think about, and I did.

  It took massive meditation and awareness of my own self-punishment, but I turned my thinking and my emotions into a reservoir of positivity. As I thought about the wedding, I was sure Prince William knew that he was choosing more than a wife: he was choosing a queen, whose duties will be demanding. He is asking not just for her hand, but for her to join him in a life of public service in which every move will be subject to the highest degree of scrutiny by an unrelenting twenty-four-hour media.

  The demands of royal protocol and of a celebrity-obsessed culture are challenging at best. The mixture of the two can create psychological stress which, trust me, I know all about.

  Although I would not be invited to the wedding, I felt so much pride in knowing that my daughters would shine with beauty and that their handsome father would look magical in his naval uniform. I remarked to him: “That is the very same uniform in which you were married!”

  “Not really, Sarah,” he reminded me. “I’ve been promoted since then!”

  From: Martha Beck

  To: Sarah

  Hello, Dear!

  Lead yourself the way you’d lead a horse—firmly, with decisiveness, but no beating. Beaten horses get depressed. They balk. They kick. This, to me, is clearly the reason the wine releases a part of you that seems out of control. It’s the part of you that resists being beaten.

  Think how you feel when the press beats on you. Does that make your life work better? If not, then how could replicating it yourself be effective?

  Please notice which experiences and memories take you into peace and relaxation (even when you’re very physically and mentally active). You’re creating the pattern for the rest of your life. You get to stitch it together out of the best experiences you can imagine.

  xoxoxoxo

  From: Mark Nepo

  To: Sarah

  Dear Sarah,

  Thanks for sharing so much of your journey. We thought of you the other day as we took a nice long walk in the pine forest. I looked to where we sat on that fallen tree and wondered how you are. All the best will continue to unfold.

  Much love,

  Mark

  From: Marina

  To: Sarah

  Darling Sarah,

  You are incredible, and I have never doubted that you would come out of it all and even stronger, my dear friend. Remember, nothing and nobody can ever break our spirit. We have learned so much and are better persons for it. Masses of love to you and your wonderful Beatrice and Eugenie. They are always a tribute to you.

  Marina

  25 Adventure as Therapy

  I want something larger and more lasting than the latest three-column spread.

  ONE NIGHT IN December 2010 I lay awake beneath a flapping tent on a frozen lake, trying to stay alive in temperatures that will freeze your flesh in a matter of seconds and wondering if it were possible to feel any more wretched. Under a special black parka—a combination of thick down and a windbreaker—I was wearing long underwear, my heaviest ski pants, a shirt, and two very heavy sweaters. On my feet were caribou-skin mukluks, or Eskimo boots; on my hands, mitts with wool liners.

  The wind roared through an open space in the tent, and I was shivering. Then I realized I was going to have to crawl out of the tent and go to the bathroom in a howling, freezing storm. How, I wondered, had I ended up in the frozen Arctic, hunkering down in subzero weather, and praying that I didn’t freeze, at least not while my pants were down around my ankles?

  Welcome to impossible2Possible (i2P). I2P, in case you’ve never heard of it, is an outdoor adventure and educational expedition; a bare-bones, no-frills, physical, mental, and emotional challenge. It engages and inspires people of all ages to the i2P philosophy that we’re all capable of the extraordinary in our lives. I suspect that most of the people who enroll in i2P do so because they’re in a rut or going through a transition. That’s why I signed up.

  Something deep inside me, though (perhaps the gentle stirrings of the real Sarah?), told me I needed to do this, that I needed a life-and-death challenge to get me closer to the woman I wanted to be, and so I forged ahead into the unknown.

  The first challenge was simply choosing the adventure. I met with Ray Zahab, i2P’s founder, in Los Angeles. Ray informed me that at the time when many people are fleeing winter’s bite by heading south to sandy beaches and fruity umbrella drinks, I’d be heading north. I’d be dropped off on the frozen-solid Great Slave Lake in the Canadian Northwest Territories—a place nearly as big as India. “My friends will think I’ve gone mad,” I thought.

  From there, I’d traverse the lake in a twenty-six-mile trek to the town of Yellowknife, a place I knew very well. Andrew and I had our honeymoon there twenty-five years ago. We took a two-week canoe trip with six other hearty souls down the Hanbury River. Andrew had made similar excursions with friends back in his Ontario school days, and he hankered to share with me the joys of white water. Touched by Andrew’s eagerness, I’d said yes. The pilot who had flown us into Yellowknife predicted that he would have to pull me back out within forty-eight hours; he even kept his seaplane on standby.

  I remember how we’d gratefully stumbled out of the tight, narrow seats where we had been confined for the two-hour flight from Yellowknife. As the silence engulfed us, so did the mosquitoes, voraciously attacking each smidgen of exposed flesh as if they hadn’t seen a human for months. In fact, they probably hadn’t. We had to wear bug nets—which made eating quite challenging.

  Every day we paddled for three hours—which seemed to me like an eternity—and I eased my unused muscles into the rhythm of long strokes. I reveled in the freedom of the wilderness. We chased molting, flightless Canada geese downstream ahead of us.

  Eventually we came to some rapids. Sadly the water was too low, so we could not go through on canoes. We portaged with seventy-pound packs on our backs across rocky ground, stone stepping. I didn’t envy a mule or donkey, though I certainly looked like one. Once we made camp on a sandy beach that seemed transplanted from Cape Cod.

  I remember that on the last day of the trip, we’d nestled into a hotel and sunk into a hot bath. The vacation turned out to be fun and memorable, with the exception of the mosquitoes. Now I wondered if it would be a painful reminder of the mistakes I’d made in life. And that would make this challenge a much more emotional one for me.

&
nbsp; Ray is a fortysomething Canadian with rugged good looks and a supremely fit physique. He is one of the most insightful, inspiring people I’ve ever met. It is hard to believe that he was once a pack-a-day smoker. Ten years ago, realizing he wanted more from life, Ray decided to adopt a healthier lifestyle and get active. He told himself he’d do the very best he could moving forward, and there was no looking back from there.

  Ray started reading about ultramarathoning and a race in the Yukon that was one hundred miles nonstop—four times the distance of a marathon. He couldn’t believe it. How did runners get past the emotional and physical barriers, he wondered? There was a photo of one guy pulling the sled with all the supplies, looking so happy for his accomplishment, but what struck Ray was that he looked like a normal guy. It was like he was speaking to Ray from the page of the magazine. At that instant, Ray decided then that he had to do this—and became an ultramarathoner himself.

  Pushing the envelope even further, Ray and two other ultrarunners made history in 2007 by running 4,300 miles across the entire Sahara Desert, battling blinding sandstorms, biting and stinging insects and other pests, and the many physical afflictions that accompany a run across an entire continent. In the process he learned about the serious, life-threatening lack of clean water in Africa. The run was documented in the film Running the Sahara, directed by Oscar winner James Moll and narrated by Matt Damon. One of the goals of the film is to raise awareness of the water crisis in Africa.

  Ray has completed eight major expeditions to date and was recently a member of the South Pole Quest and the Siberian Express teams, and in early 2011 he ran the length of the Atacama Desert. In 2008, he founded impossible2Possible based on the principle: The only limitations we face are those we place upon ourselves. If my survival was at stake in the Canadian Northwest, Ray would be my first choice as a companion.

  Ray assured me that any person in average physical condition could tackle this adventure, but I had my doubts. I had ignored the fact that I was an out-of-shape fifty-one-year-old, more accustomed to tailored suits and heels than backpacks and parkas. My physical stamina certainly paled beside Ray’s. When I found out that I’d be hauling a fifty-pound pack for twenty-six miles and that I was advised to do aerobic and weight-bearing training seven days a week for five weeks in advance, I started to wonder if I had the strength and endurance for this, especially after living in flat London.

  Ray assigned a trainer named Aaron Ferguson to work with me and get me fit. An Australian, Aaron is funny, bright, and a wonder—not to mention incredibly cute—and a shining little piece of gold dust. Aaron, whose favorite expression is “Let’s crank,” specializes in preparing people for extreme adventures. If I was to succeed, I’d need someone with Aaron’s expertise.

  The first thing we did was head to a flower mart to get a feel for the cold. Ray, Aaron, and I stepped into the cooler. After mere minutes I was intensely aware of how cold I was, so cold, in fact, that I had trouble forcing the muscles of my mouth to form words.

  “As cold as it is in here,” Ray said, “it’s going to be forty times as cold in Yellowknife.”

  Brrrrrrrr.

  Aaron had been to Yellowknife himself. “Ten people died during the two weeks I was there.”

  Hearing that story did not comfort me. “Really? What, because of the cold?”

  “Yes. Frostbite. They didn’t have the right gear.”

  “Nice cheery thought.”

  The more I heard about this adventure, the more daunting it became. The key for me would be to stay mentally strong. If I didn’t, I’d fail, and in this case, failure could mean death.

  For the last fifteen years I had exercised—lifting weights and jogging—but Aaron changed my workouts to train for my trip.

  One workout was to drag a tire tied behind a backpack. I silently grumbled, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  This exercise simulated the sled-pulling I’d do across the snow-covered frozen lake, although the sled would be heavier. My first impression was, “Oh, my God, I’m so fat!” It was tough and exhausting; it felt like I was pulling the fifteen-foot train of my wedding dress. Then Aaron told me to run with it! The next day my hamstrings were screaming.

  More training exercises followed: long daily hikes in the Malibu hills—treks that got longer and harder each day; and running on the beach and up and down sand dunes—all fueled by a vegetable-and carb-rich nutritional program Ray had designed.

  One night Aaron and I reached the peak of one of the hills and were entertained by a fiery red sunset over Los Angeles and a chorus of birds singing a nighttime lullaby. I got out my camera and began clicking away.

  Aaron and I chatted a lot during these training sessions.

  “Actually, I think I’ve decided that it’s time for a boyfriend. That’s what I need, Aaron, a boyfriend.”

  “All right. Let’s get running.”

  “Yes, actually, I’ve got to get fit in order to attract him.”

  “It’s time to get you a man.”

  “He has to be fit, humorous, spiritual, kind, and love animals.”

  I mentioned to Aaron that I had married England’s best-looking prince.

  “Are you thinking about getting back together?”

  “I don’t think they’d have me back. But I hope someday there will be somebody lovely who will be with me. I don’t know who it’s going to be; who knows, it might even be Andrew.”

  Then suddenly I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. The topic threw off my focus.

  Another time Aaron and I were training in Britain over Christmas when it was 10 degrees below. The snow was so thick that we couldn’t run, so we walked, slip-sliding the entire time. I started talking to him about my wretched mind chatter and my people-pleasing addiction. He told me this amusing story, which is one of Aesop’s fables:

  Once a man, his boy, and a donkey were traveling to a city that was very far away. On their way there, they passed many villages and met many different kinds of people who believed very different things.

  One day, the two travelers and their donkey walked into a village where the people believed that youth was to be honored and revered. When the villagers saw the man and his boy walk into town, they stopped them and said to the man, “You’re not taking proper care of the young boy. He should be honored and allowed to ride on the donkey instead of walking.” So the man put his boy on the donkey, and they rode out of town.

  The next day, they came to a village where the people believed their elders should be respected. When they saw the man walking by with his son riding the donkey, they stopped him and said, “You are the eldest. You should be the one riding the donkey.” So the man lifted his son off the donkey and got on it himself.

  On the next day, the three came to a village where everyone believed that people are the highest creatures in a world order that has been created by God, and that all other creatures should serve people as their masters. They laughed at the man and boy and said that they should both ride the beast and whip him with a stick if he refused to carry them. So they both got on the donkey and rode him out of town.

  Finally, they came to a village in which the people believed that animals have rights just as humans do and that animals should be respected and honored just as much as humans are, if not more. When they saw the man and his boy riding the poor, tired donkey, they became angry with them and said, “The poor donkey has been doing all of the work and you have done none of it. The donkey has just as much right to ride as you do.” So they got off the donkey. He and his son cut a strong pole and tied the donkey’s feet to it so that they could carry him and give him a rest.

  They came to a bridge. The donkey’s foot got loose and he kicked the boy, causing him to lose his grip on the pole. They dropped the pole, and the donkey fell into the river.

  Aaron wrapped it up by telling me: If you continually listen to the opinions of others, try to do what others believe in, and don’t stay in your own space, you can kiss your ass
good-bye!

  Aaron is such a joy—and so positive. We became very close; he is like a little brother to me.

  As for our workouts, I discovered that training for a tangible goal increased my motivation. I was positively inspired to push my limits. In a couple of weeks, I had increased my endurance and stamina—no more huffing and puffing. I don’t think my legs have ever been stronger. And I just felt better—and more optimistic that I’d be able to survive the challenge.

  “Isn’t it great to start a health kick?” Aaron asked.

  This was a life kick.

  From: Martha Beck

  To: Sarah

  Hello, darling,

  You are not alone, and there is nothing to do. Just breathe and allow yourself to melt. The process of metamorphosis drives itself, without your will.

  Watch the guilt, and offer your guilt-ridden self love.

  Watch the shame, and offer your shamed self love.

  Watch your fear, and offer your frightened self love.

  Watch your sorrow, and offer your sorrowing self love.

  Watch yourself disappear, and offer love to it and the self you

  have not yet become, who can fly.

  You are never boring, you are always good enough. Nothing can stop your mission, and mission is the one thing that will bring you true joy. Align with God, and you will know that. God is always nearer than near.

  Much love,

  Martha

  26 The Great Slave Lake

  Vulnerability is a strength.

  THINGS CAN GET very cozy inside a fully loaded prop plane. I was cramped and cranky and fired up to start moving. As I looked out the window, I saw nothing but open stretches of ice, when bang-slap, we landed.

  As I stepped off the warm plane, the bone-chilling temperature came as a shock. It hovered around –50 degrees. A thin layer of snow on the ice crackled like bubble wrap under my boots. I inhaled and the hairs in my nose froze. This made London seem almost tropical.