Sometimes I imagine what it might feel like to be a skydiver.
The heart pounding fear just before the jump, the immediate regret as soon as I do.
And then, maybe, a few moments of freedom as I quickly separate from the plane, before the parachute opens. Free falling toward the ground, it gets maddeningly bigger and greener, more concrete and real.
Then I begin to fear the worst. What if some catastrophic mechanical failure causes me to speed up as I approach the earth? Would I, like some incandescent space debris, travel fast enough to burn up before hitting the ground? Would I pass out moments before I smash every body part into untraceable fragments?
Then, suddenly shaking me loose from my nightmare, the parachute rips opens and I am momentarily pulled back up into the air.
Peace descends alongside me. I float in solitude, eying the ground below as if through the camera lens of some made-for-television movie. One from World War II, perhaps, where I’m now altogether ready to do my part in liberating the newly defeated citizenry.
A perfect landing, one swallowed up in nylon and Kevlar. As I pull myself back up, I make quick, stabbing motions to gather up and fold my beautiful little safety net.
I stare back up into the sky, ready for another run. Back to where I came from.
Image Credit: Pixabay