Parachutes

The guy was just falling. Forever, it seemed like. I had just turned on the television and all I could see was a blue expanse with a silhouetted figure free-falling and careening towards some sort of unknown end. It was terrifying; it was kind of exhilirating. And my five-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend it. I was staying with my grandmother for the afternoon, and she had left to go around the corner to pick up a few things at the grocery store for dinner. I’d be alone, but I was glued. I’d be fine.

I became tense, mostly because nothing changed. Seconds later, he was still falling. How far up was he? How would it end? If you’re five, everything is new, and there’s no frame of reference for how the world works. It’s like a dark hallway: you can only see 4 steps in front of you. You’re too naive to be terrified; you’re just curious. There isn’t a left or right in a hallway, only forward, so you just keep moving.

Just then, in a fit, a large, parachute bounded out of a backpack in an explosion of color. Reds, yellows, purples and oranges to save the day. A free fall turned into a graceful descending swing from the left side of my screen to the right. He was safe. I saw the thrill, the freedom and the grace. I wanted that.

All I needed was a parachute and some where high. It seemed to me that a garbage bag would make a perfectly good parachute. And that, to me, the top of my family’s conversion van was high enough to get the job done. I put my foot up on the back bumper and managed to writhe my way to the top of the van. I looked down and it looked like forever. I carefully unfolded my trash bag and opened it. The voice on the television told me that it’s never good if the cords of the parachute get tangled. I closed my eyes, lifted my chin with the dignity of an adventurer and leapt.

I received none of the beauty and grace that I witnessed on the television. Thud. A shock up both legs. Pins and needles in my feet for about 2 hours.

This was a formative experience for me. It’s not because I tried something and failed. This experience is special to me because I climbed back up onto the van and tried again. After the second time, I stayed sprawled on the ground like a starfish. My older self wants to believe I was relishing the quiet dignity of trying and failing. I probably just had the wind out of me. I had lost my breath in the hope of something marvelous. And that’s where my grandmother found me.

Maybe I’m pig-headed. Or under-educated in physics. I’m five times older now, and my heart still believes that the scheme could work. I’m still in that hallway bounding towards the other side. Every movement is positive, simply because it’s movement. And I keep going because a part of me still believes that I can connect things and make the beautiful things I see true.