Looking out of the open door is the most exciting part, also
the scariest. Mountains are below you and below them the towns, cars, people
and animals. A patchwork landscape of fields, roads, and rivers looks up at
you, daring you. This is a challenge you have chosen to undertake. Why? Well,
because you’re young, you’re alive, the world is your oyster and you want to
show it who’s boss. So you take a deep breath, scoot to the edge. Your tandem
partner taps you on the head, the signal. He rocks you forward, then back, then
forward again. The third time, he doesn’t rock you back. The weight of his body
propels you forward and out, past the wing, past the guy with a camera mounted
on his helmet. Billowy bits of baby clouds rush into your face and you scream,
shrill and breathless. You have to scream or you may pass out, the instructor
told you that before the jump and so you do it. Truthfully, you would have
anyway.
You scream and scream and scream! And in between those
screams you yell, to God in heaven, to the world, to everyone who has ever
wronged you, abandoned you, made you feel weak or insignificant; those who
didn’t believe in you or demanded too much. You howl and it is a war cry.
Everything in you is out at the same time as the canopy opens above you. The
air sucks you up hundreds of feet in a swift whoosh!
Peace. There is ultimate peace and tranquility under this
cover that blocks out the wind and the noise and the world. Your tandem partner
is there but you are alone. You left your troubles behind you, a few thousand
feet ago. They are now vapors, building into meaningless, impotent clouds. They
will break up or blow away.
With the parachute open, your descent is slow and you pull
the handles to turn this way, then that. The world is before you and it is
clean and fresh and new. Nineteen is only a number and a small one at that.
There will be more, many more. They will be called years and will be filled
with heartache and happiness. You will learn and grow and earn stretch marks
and sloppy kisses and a partner to cuddle with night after night. There will be
peace, just not often. But you know none of this and anyway, peace isn’t
terribly exciting.
You float toward the ground or it runs up to meet you,
begging you to return. Landing is quick and a little violent, almost a rebirth.
And it should be; you are new and this is your life. You are invincible!
So a couple of towers
fall a few months later; you can handle it. You’re nineteen and powerful, and you’ll
hold your candle, the scented one in a glass jar because that is all you have.
You’ll stand in circles and hold hands, pray and sing and listen with
strangers, wondering if your neighbors made it out. You’ll cry and you’ll
scream, because if you don’t scream you might pass out.
You’ll beat your pillow with your balled up fists and beg God
to turn it all around. You’ll wish you were back under that canopy where
stillness reigned and innocence was reality. All you want is home and security
and Mama, but you have a contract to fulfill. And anyway, the airports are
closed and so are the bus stations and trains. You’re stuck but at least you
have a ticket for two weeks from now. You hold onto that little piece of hope
and let it guide you, this way and that, through the coming days and around the
moments of panic.
As with the canopy of peace, the canopy of stress and fear
slows time down. Two weeks could just as easily be two months or two years. You
try to get back to your routine but there is no such thing anymore. Nothing
will ever be the same. You will never be the same but you don’t know that yet.
All you know is that you are only nineteen, a small number, a small person,
stuck in a scary world, way too far from home.
Finally, you head to the airport. Driving over the bridge,
you see a boastful cloud of smoke, stuck, suspended over the skyline. It can’t
be what it obviously is. Not after two weeks! Why hasn’t someone--God or wind
or something—moved that ominous,
gloating reminder from the sky?! The airport is filled with machine guns and
slowly moving lines of nervous travelers. You’ve left your employers on bad
terms and now you’re lugging three huge suitcases, alone, heading into the
abyss where nothing is safe and there are no guarantees. Three hours later, you
are going up again, to where the air is thin and the clouds may gather, but
with no parachute this time.
The flight is long but you don’t sleep. Passing by cities and
rivers, you finally fly over the Midwest and feel a measure of relief. Surely
you are safe now. Still you don’t sleep—just in case. You eat the food and
drink the Coke but taste none of it. A stuffed bear sits on your lap and you
know Mama will be waiting at the gate because people can still do that. The world
has changed but you are not yet aware of how unfamiliar it will become over the
next few years.
The landing is quick and a little violent, another rebirth.
Again you feel invincible. Fate or destiny must be on your side and now you
feel like screaming, or passing out, or just sitting holding a bear. When you
walk out this door, you will not fall through the sky or parachute to a
welcoming earth. You will leave on your feet, carried by your own strength and
sheltered under the canopy of self-preservation. Behind you will be the vapors
and mist of what was, the life everyone knew before.
Your mother runs forward to meet you the minute she spots you
and now you are safe in her arms. She will end up a widow and you will be a
divorcee at twenty-one, but hell, you have jumped from the sky and lived, you
have watched the entire world shift and yet survived. So one more time, scream
at the world and all that was and all that will be. It’s all mist and clouds
and nothingness anyway. Leave the noise behind, embrace the emptiness, the
freedom. Yell, holler, give your war cry! Then move forward, out the door,
knowing you are invincible--but not the boss.
