I think I have something to say.
My life, at 48, has been very full. In my quiet times, I think about the steps I have taken and the moments that have filled the spaces in between. Some of those moments have made walking easy, graceful. Some moments have created space so large I’ve not been able to take the next step on my own. Sometimes, I’ve simply had to jump.
Jumping was not easy to learn. I was in my thirties the first time I found myself standing on that edge. Unable to hold onto anything because everything I knew had crumbled below me. Little did I know. So little. Yet, I knew enough to know that walking on rubble was painful and assured uncertainty and weakness.
So I jumped.
Jumping is the frightening thing you do when you finally give up control. It takes a tremendous amount of faith. And if your world has crumbled completely enough, if you truly are standing on that edge alone, then even faith finds itself hallow. Truth ambiguous and elusive leaves the ground soft and unpredictable. Hardly a place to jump from. More a falling.
I think it’s the falling I have something to say about. That moment when your hand slips the rail, when your feet leave the ground and your eyes loose focus. That moment when things move too fast. That moment you will look back on for the rest of your life and reflect upon what it is that caused you to fall, what flashed before your eyes, and when finally stopping, what it was that caught you and where it was you landed.
This is the stuff that makes us. It’s the very sinew that holds us together, keeps us on our feet, sustains and restores us, readies us for that next step. These are the stories I have to tell. They are my stories, they are your stories, they are the ancient stories passed down with a unique sort of repetitiveness. As if there is a finite number of moments, yet completely immeasurable in consequence.
Yes, I have something to say. Yes, yes, yes.