Parachuting

I've jumped out of an airplane. Three times.

The guy who led me to this was an Army Ranger who told me that I needed to do three jumps. After the
third, "you would know."

"The first jump," he said, "is rote." You'll have done ground school, practiced, practiced, and drilled, and your mind will be focused totally on the task, and not the experience." He paused. "The second jump would be little different. You'll be thinking more," he said, "and you'll begin to have some questions."

"The third jump," and here he paused with a crooked smile, "the third jump is when your brain starts to focus on the experience, and not the task." After the third jump I would know if skydiving was for me.

True to form, after ground school my first jump was rote. I stepped out, held on, and leaped when told to do so. My static line—one end lovingly affixed to an anchor point in the airplane, the other end tenderly tied to my rip cord—did its duty. My chute opened, and I piloted myself to the ground, thrilled by the grace of flight.

Also true to form, during my second jump I sensed my surroundings a little more, but I remained focused on the task. I stepped out, let go, and flew. I was loving the static line.

The third jump was the stuff of nightmares.

I sounded simple, really. They would double the length of the static line. With that extra second or two of drop time, I was to open up into the freefall position and mimic the action of pulling the rip cord. I still would be attached to the static line, so I did not actually need to pull the chute. Simple. Easy.

The door opened; time stopped.

Like the old Outer Limits episode, it did not so much stop as slow, freakishly. I was hyper-aware. The wind rippled across the fabric of my suit. It whipped past my ears with freight train power and hurricane ferocity. I smelled the woody, diesel smell of mid-northern Florida—a scent forever burned in my memory. Sound. Vision. Sensations gripping me, I stepped out—HOLY JEEZUS THE STEP IS SMALL! I held on, white-knuckling the bar.

"WHY AM I DOING THIS?" my mind screamed.

"Jump!", he shouted.

"NO!", my mind screamed.

"No!", I screamed.

"JUMP!", he screamed.

"AAAAAHHhhhhhhh!", I screamed as I was "compelled" to jump.

I was supposed to execute a smooth transition into freefall position.

Yeah, not so much.

I windmilled, flailed, and kicked like a hanged man. I may have wet myself. White sheets of terror enveloped me, even as the line jerked taut, the chute opened, the canopy inflated, and I glided.

My Army Ranger friend was right. My third jump did it. I knew it.

I never need to do that again.

Parachutes and Life's Big Moments

It's all about trust.

When you jump out of a plane, you trust. You trust your parachute. You trust that it is in perfect condition, that all the lines are strong, and the fabric is sound. You trust the person who packed it. You trust that they have the knowledge and experience to fold the cloth and layer the lines so it will open true.

You're placing trust in others, or yourself, or some tangible thing. Regardless, it's trust.

Jumping is proof. The moment is already past; you've trusted. You've crossed a threshold.

Thresholds are life's big moments. When you stand on the cusp of a decision, that's a threshold. When you approach a fork in the road, indecisive, and the road gets shorter and you don't know what to do and it's urgent but you can't choose and you start to sweat and your eyes go big and the moment, the instant gets closer, that's a threshold.

It's when you're on that step, or in that doorway about to pass into something new, when decision and indecision joust, fear and courage clash, faith and doubt collide. Thresholds are when we are most alive.

Right now, I am most alive.

Making the Leap

I don't know what's coming. More to the point, I can't predict it.

I'm scared.

I know I have a tumor. I know I need a biopsy. I know it may or may not be cancer.

If it is cancer returned, I'm terrified. There. I wrote it:

I. Am. Terrified.

I need to cross my threshold. I need to get beyond this moment, so I can face the coming moments...and their thresholds

And that's why I write. That's why I'm posting on Facebook. That's why I call and text. I need to cross my thresholds.

I'm in a good place. I made a great decision. I'm at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. I have access to marvelously advanced medical systems and incredibly talented medical personnel.

Here, they know how to pack a parachute. More to the point, they know what kind of parachute to pack—with which kind of fabric, and which kind of line—to ease my body back to ground, safely.

I'm also blessed.

I have family and friends who love and support me, they weave the fabrics and twist the ropes that will help ease me back to ground.

And I am a character with much character who intuits how to be strong and how to gather strength.

I have the means, and the motive, and the opportunity to confront fear, focus, and deal.

I know how to cross; I know how to leap—with panache.

But I know so little! I know I have a tumor. I know I need a biopsy. I know it may or may not be cancer...

Neil Gaiman captures encapsulates threshold's moment wonderfully in the story "Fear of Falling", within the Sandman epic.

In the story, a man dreams. in his dream he is rock climbing—higher and higher—and he is afraid. He meets a stranger near the top of the mountain. The stranger converses with the climber—in the way of dreams—and states: "It is sometimes a mistake to climb, it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt."

The episode continues, musing on fear, and the stranger observes: "Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly."

I fear. I fear the unknown before me. I fear the fall.

But I've leapt.

And I hope to fly.

And to be thrilled by the grace of flight.