We’re always told to
reach as high as we
can, to strive for the
tippity top. A life has
its ups and downs, we
are also told. Chin up,
nose to the grindstone,
get back on that horse
that threw you to the
curb. These things, in
incarnations, we also
often here. Or I have.
We hear about spiraling
and we hear about rock
bottom as well. But one
thing I have heard much
less about, at least in any
detail, is what falling really
feels like, what a rush it is,
how dizzying, we lose our
composure, but yet there’s
the thrills, the excitement,
the outright fear. Reaching
a peak. Missing a stop at
the very top. Falling off
the bluff. Oops. That’s
no fun. Unless maybe
you have a hang glider,
or (if it happens to be
an extra long fall) a
parachute. A minute
ago I was reaching
for a goal, wishing
to reach that peak
barely discernible
on the horizon.
Now I am in
freefall with
no way to
float through
it, no parachute
to make the landing
livable. Hey, all you
cheerleaders! What
should I do? Is there
an upside to freefalling?
And what, I ask, if but one
more inquiry, was so special
about the peak I made it to,
the one from which I just
now fall?
