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Nashville, TN: I sometimes wonder if writing a blog makes me live my life in blog-speak. As in, rather than just having an experience and moving on from it, I tend to think: how
will this story sound once I write about it? Or, what’s the lesson learned that I can share online?
Not to say that I make decisions on what I'm going to do or not to based on my blog, but if I'm on the fence of should I stay or should I go now, chances are, I'm going to start crafting the moral of my story in my head to at least make either decision worthwhile.
And crafting a blog in my head is exactly what I was doing as I traveled to Waverly, TN last weekend. A year prior -- just two days shy of the day -- I had made an impulse online purchase. I had been on a bit of a Groupon / Living Social spree: deals on photo-to-canvas art, eyeglasses, massages, dinners, etc. When one that popped up for something I had never considered or even desired to do, I decided to do it anyway since it was a great deal. Plus, it had a year expiration date, which meant I could put it off for twelve months. And honestly, it would make an awesome blog. So I bought the online deal for:
Tandem Skydiving.
Now, I don't think of myself as a necessarily brave person. But I do some things that I suppose others would think of as brave. I moved away from home and have lived in Boston and Los Angeles and Nashville. I've traveled around London and Spain on my own. I sang "Celebration" with Kenny Chesney's band on an outdoor stage in front of Mandalay Bay in Vegas. (Random. And True.)
But thrilling rides and other physical activities that would cause my heart to plummet to my bottom of my gut and return sharply to the top my throat not only just don't do it for me... they terrify me.
And this fear is deep-seated. So much so that my sweet Mother sent me this photo circa 1979 from a trip to Worlds of Fun. She told me, "you would go on the merry-go-round since it went around in a circle, but we had to stay on the bench since the horses went up and down -- which you hated."
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| Little 4 year old Carolyn with a look of major displeasure and fear from this activity. |
Yet somehow, 34 years later, without any acquired bravery in the thrill-based activity department, I paid money to jump out of a perfectly good plane from the sky.
Three things happened when I arrived to the location:
1) Since this was the last weekend to use the deal, the place was packed with last-minute coupon-fillers.
2) Turns out if there is any sort of not-perfect weather (clouds, chance of rain, etc.), the jumps go into a holding pattern and everyone waits until the weather clears up.
3) Because of 1 & 2, our 10am scheduled jump time turned into a 2:30pm jump time. Which means I had four and a half hours to wonder what the F*#& was I doing!?!?
I did have friends with me who were trying their best to calm me down. Catherine, who I tour with, bought the same deal ("that's crazy!" she exclaimed a year ago, right before she purchased one for herself) and her husband, Kerry, was our driver and photographer and voice of bossy hope ("you're not going to chicken out. You're going to do it and love it.").
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| C+C+K |
But the thing is, when I have 4 1/2 hours to think about doing something that is potentially dangerous and even deadly, I can work myself up into a major panic.
Seriously -- why am I doing this?
It's never been on some sort of bucket list.
I don't feel the need to prove anything to anyone.
I honestly don't care about getting over a childhood fear.
If I back out now, what would that say about me?
What if I have a heart attack when I jump out?
What if I break my leg when I land?
WHAT IS THE POINT OF DOING THIS AT ALL?
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| Seriously terrified. |
And then it suddenly it was time. The interview was conducted (oh yeah - I'm paying extra to relive this experience via video), the harness was secured, the brief instructions were given (cross your arms over your chest, bend at your knees, arch your back, stick your pelvis out, then... JUMP), the plane was boarded. I had 270 minutes to work myself up into a tailspin and in less than 5 minutes, I was 10,000 feet above the earth, preparing to take an actual leap of faith.
One thing that actually saved me from losing my shit in the plane ride (I mean that figuratively and, possibly, literally) is that before I stepped on board, I was talking to my photographer/interviewer who would be jumping out in front of me, with a camera strapped to her head, to capture my possible death. "I don't even like roller coasters," I lamented. "I still can't believe I'm doing this."
"But it's not like a roller coaster," she explained. "You don't get that same stomach-dropping feeling. It's more of a sensory-overload when you realize you're about to jump out of a plane." And in that moment, something shifted. In my mind, I had been so fearful of the roller-coaster / drop-tower feeling I assumed I was going to get while jumping from this contraption... the idea of potentially NOT having that feeling completely eased my mind.
For the next five minutes, I was completely present in the moment. There was no longer of fear of what was about to happen since it was actually happening. My usual self-deprecating go-to's (I wish I would have done this after another boot camp! why didn't I post my European vacation pictures yet?) were no where to be found. I was simply there. Whatever was going to happen was about to happen, like it or not.
Since I had gotten on last, it meant I was about to jump first. At 10,000 feet, and securely strapped to my tandem instructor (I could only pray), I scooted my way off the plane's picnic-like bench seat and peered over the edge. There below was the earth. All around me were clouds. But somehow, I was able to get zen with myself and thought of the most calming rationalization I could come up with:
This is just like a TV green screen. That's not really the ground. And I'm not really 10,000 feet in the air. This is just some sort of amusement park ride that won't actually make me want to puke. Who knows - it might even be kind of fun. But either way, I'm here now and I'm about to do it.
Arms crossed.
Knees bent.
Head back.
Back arched.
Pelvis forward.
And.... JUMP!
I initially closed my eyes. I couldn't help it. But when I finally opened them, I realized my heart really didn't drop to my stomach, just like the photographer said. And the weirdest part wasn't that I was falling in the sky, it was that it was realllllly windy and I couldn't quite catch my breath. I hadn't anticipated that I might hold my breath during the free fall, but it wasn't even that uncomfortable.
So there I was. 10,000 feet in the air. Falling from the sky. Blowing kisses to the photographer.
And in the a New York minute, the instructor pulls the parachute and I am jolted (not hard, just intentionally) and we start to float. Gently, gracefully, quietly.
And I do the most natural thing I know to do in such a moment:
I scream a string of profanities at the top of my lungs.
(At this point, I wish I would have paid extra for the close-up video that captures your conversation.)
But once that energy was released, I soaked in the beauty and serenity of floating from the sky.
After I safely returned to earth, I realized three things:
1) The anticipation of jumping out of a plane almost killed me. The actual jumping out of the plane - while I didn't know for sure how I'd react - wasn't nearly as bad (and actually pretty amazing) as I had worked it up to be. Perhaps I can apply this idea to the rest of my life: the worry about the future is, most of the time, worse than the future itself. And I'm the only one responsible for causing this grief.
2) There was no where to be other than in the moment before I jumped out of the plane. I work so hard on stopping to replay the past or worry about the future. This was a time I can genuinely say I was fully present. Maybe I can try to use that same focus, I don't know -- everyday of my life?
3) I'm thinking in blog-speak yet again! But it turns out, that's actually not such a bad thing. Mary Oliver wrote a poem that speaks to this, called "Instructions for Living A Life":
"Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."
I'd like to take Mary's advice and tell about it (aka blogging about it) by adding on just a few more things:
"Be present in the moment.
Stop worrying about the future.
Next time, get the close-up video."
And now I can relive it whenever I want to.
Without having to ever.do.it.again.
