Might As Well Jump

 

 

 

In Frank Herbert’s Dune, the mystical Bene Gesserit sisterhood had a litany against fear.

“I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

To the Bene Gesserit, what separated a human from an animal was the ability to withstand and endure terror, suborning it to one’s will. The animal reacted. The human planned.

I’ve always been a planner. I got afraid if I didn’t have a plan. So when people ask why I left my job without another in hand, I tell them “I was about to turn 46, with more years behind than ahead, and my ‘maybe someday’ list was running out of somedays.” When it’s more than a passing conversation, I quote Annie Dillard in The Writing Life: “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and that one is what we are doing.” They commend me for having the courage to pursue my dreams, which embarrasses me because it had nothing to do with courage, or even dreams. I’m privileged to have resources to get by while I figure things out. My family is in no real danger. All I did was react to my calculus of competing fears.

They weren’t even interesting fears. On one side was the mid-life crisis of a plateaued career, mounting frustration, and a nebulous sense of being trapped. On the other were the worst-case scenarios of starting over. The boredom I knew, versus all the worse ways I could fail. Endurance versus action. I flipped the Bene Gesserit’s script, building up a fear-driven resilience to the daily grind that paid the bills and gave me a respectable job title. I could detach my emotions, do the work, and set my brain on autopilot. “The examined life is not worth living,” I’d joke. Because once examined, I’d have to respond to what I saw. And that meant I’d have to leap off the edge of that plateau, into the unknown.

Jumping was on my mind when my supervisor took me to task for not being enthusiastic and inspiring enough for my team.

In my sophomore year of college, I joined some dorm mates and went skydiving. It was a half day process of getting familiar with the equipment, practicing the sequence of actions that would get me to the ground intact, and drilling on the safety contingencies. That done, we went up in a tiny Cessna. A static line was attached from the plane to our parachutes; they would open automatically when we fell a certain distance, provided we arched our bodies in the way that kept our backs up and bellies down. One by one, we followed the steps we’d practiced.

When my turn came, our instructor called ONE, and I stood in the open door frame in the side of the plane.

TWO. I stepped out between a pair of bars under the wing; one that I could grip in my hands, and the other that supported my feet.

THREE. While holding on to the upper bar, I stepped off the lower, and hung from my hands under the wing.

FOUR. There was no getting back into the plane now, even if the shame of doing so was endurable. The only things I could do were continue to hang there, or do what I’d come to do, and just. let. go.

Confusion. The roar of wind in my ears through my helmet. A jumble of images and no idea which way was up. Then the parachute opened, and it all went quiet. Peaceful. Free. I hung in the sky supported by air, and drifted over green and brown rectangles of land. I saw a barn. A house. A Christmas tree. It was a sublime, singular experience. Only later did it hit me that I’d jumped out of an airplane. It seemed insane. They key was that I hadn’t approached it as a single action. Even at the very end, it was four steps, which I concentrated on executing as well as I could, my mind focused on that specific task and not the entire chain of events that would put me in freefall, 12,000 feet up.

Of course, underneath it all was a huge amount of faith in the entire support system. I had faith in the instructors, the pilot, the equipment handlers, the equipment itself. I had faith in the invulnerability that came with being 19 years old. More than two decades later, I had forgotten that faith, especially in myself. As my responsibilities expanded beyond myself, so did my caution. I allowed my roles to define me, and as they did, my life became less about me and more about my obligations. That’s even considered virtuous to some. They call it a work ethic. I suspect that’s what a mid-life crisis is: after years of paying dues and being responsible, the sidelined self roars back into focus, demanding satisfaction. It wants, selfishly, unapologetically. In my case, it wanted, once again, to jump.

ONE. I told my supervisor that if my attitude was such a concern, but there was nothing to do about what caused that attitude, I really had to think about why I was here.

TWO. I asked my wife how concerned she’d be if I outright quit. This week. Tomorrow. She had once quit in frustration. She said we could make it work.

THREE. I backed up and cleared away everything personal on my laptop and desk, and took a final inventory of what I’d be leaving behind. Surprisingly little, all told.

FOUR. I looked forward to the follow-up meeting with my supervisor. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had power. I was no longer beholden, no longer obligated. A feeling of magnanimity swelled up in me. I didn’t need to vent my grievances, I simply thanked him for his candor and give my two weeks notice.

I was light, free, floating and smiling all those two weeks. My relationship to people and objects in and around the office had shifted. I moved among them, but untethered. All the weight was lifted. Ironically, I could focus better, and the magnanimous attitude buoyed me through the remaining work days. I did ask myself if I could have somehow manufactured this way of being while keeping my job, but it was a passing thought. The feeling of release, of hope for the future, couldn’t be faked. It could only come from facing down my fear, letting go, and tumbling into open air.

CODA. The following week after my last day, my phone buzzed with texts, emails, and instant messages. Several people, including my supervisor, his supervisor, and half my peers, had their jobs terminated. A part of me wished I had held out three days, for a severance package. But the better part was happy to have my instincts validated. It’s better to jump than to be pushed.

 

A Scary Story

In the dark, dark woods is a dark, dark house.

In the dark, dark house is a dark, dark room.

In the dark, dark room is a dark, dark shelf.

On the dark, dark shelf is a dark, dark book.

In the dark, dark book is a dark, dark manifesto.

In the dark, dark manifesto are some dark, dark ideas.

Within the dark, dark ideas is a dark, dark perspective.

Behind the dark, dark perspective is a dark, dark experience.

In the dark, dark experience is dark, dark suffering.

Behind the dark, dark suffering is some dark, dark hate.

Behind the dark, dark hate is dark, dark anger.

Behind the dark, dark anger is dark, dark fear.

Behind the dark, dark fear is dark, dark despair.

In the dark, dark despair is a dark, dark abyss.

And the dark, dark abyss…

GAZES ALSO INTO YOU.

 

Image by soldiercloud42

The Wails of Evie O’Grady

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banshee

In the forlorn bloggy reaches of the internet are pages visited only by mindless things that crawl the Web. In this virtual twilight, where sadness hangs like mist, there are still voices. In brighter days, there were ears to listen. And those that remember, agree: nobody wailed online like Evie O’Grady.

Evie’s marriage endured three years. Hearing that relationships were mourned at least as long as they lasted, she made grief a habit to replace the habits Richie stuffed into a suitcase and took to Los Angeles with someone named Lana. Evie returned every evening to the apartment, declining happy hour invitations until they stopped. Some weekends she didn’t change out of pajamas or even leave the bed. Her phone became her world.

At three in the morning, she could post a digital howl, and online arms would comfort her. Souls she hadn’t met in the flesh would proffer virtual shoulders. Even seeing her words “Liked” comforted her. The tendons of her thumbs spasmed, but through the months of typing on the tiny keyboard, she mastered sculpting dirges into written art, her pain a bottomless well of inspiration.

But appreciation for her beautiful melancholy soon waned. “Friends” vanished with each lamentation, and Evie mourned them as she mourned all loss, wailing in the digital dusk. Some posted from their distant, sunny haze. Evie sometimes caught their eyes with a tag or mention. But after a few times they too would wink out, one by one, like stars behind a fog.

Chasing Coffee

You can chase that perfect cup of coffee your entire adult life. It exists in your mind like a Platonic Form. It takes you back to that café, the one where you stopped because you had time to kill, and you managed to snag a table outside in the morning sun. You had that cup, and then another, not because you were trying to wake up, but to bolster your claim on the city’s best outdoor seat. You imagined writers finding inspiration and putting pen to paper in a seat like this, but the sun made you lazy, and you settled for reading the inspired words of others.

An impulsive swagger made you order your coffee black, but after a couple of sips you added just enough milk and sweetener to enjoy as though no one was watching because of course, no one was. The adjustment made you pay attention to the coffee’s flavor and the aroma, and the warmth spreading through your chest from within. That’s when you ordered your second cup and slowed yourself down.

Over the years you’ve tried different shops, different blends. You’ve had cups that are, if you’re being fair, superior on every measurable dimension than the one you’re chasing. But they remain your fall-back, your second-best. Sometimes you fear that if you ever found that original cup, it wouldn’t hold up to your romanticized memory. Your tastes have changed. You’ve changed, and as the saying goes, you can’t go home again. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not about the coffee. All this time, you’ve been chasing a moment.

While On a Sinking Ship

The deck lurched, with the promise of more lurching, and my sailor’s legs told me I was on a sinking ship. Not today, and maybe not even this year, but she felt low in the water, a little lower each month. And by the time the waves began lapping up over the sides, it would be a perilously late escape.

Some might blame the captain, or the crew, or the changeable nature of the sea and sky, and many did exactly that — debating and pontificating by the lantern light below deck. I stayed away from such talk; blame solved nothing. But the problem remained: I was on a sinking ship.

I was a strong swimmer, and there were other ships, surely, nearby. But the ship I was on was comfortable. The captain didn’t work the crew too hard, there was good rum every Friday, and the wage was decent for the effort. I had even earned a measure of respect from the officers during my time in service. To toss those things aside and to plunge head-first into the cold, deep waters, to swim for my life as if I were a young man, and to haul myself up onto a new deck, learning the ropes all over again… It was daunting compared to the thought of biding my time, waiting until the risk of staying got worse than the risk of jumping overboard.

What to do, I wondered, staring into the foam-capped waves.

Second Chance

When Lucifer was invited back to Heaven to petition for readmission, he laughed — even as he chose his best suit and tie. Unfurling his long-unused wings and ascending, he mused that he was but a minion when he Fell. Now he was a ruler. What could Heaven offer him? But as he walked the shining white promenades, inhaling the incense fanned by Seraphim’s wings and basking in the ambient Grace, he was struck by how the mind kindly forgets the glories it deems forever lost. Sitting in the waiting room, sipping complimentary Ambrosia, Lucifer couldn’t stop stealing glances at the office door. His palms began to sweat.

A cherub opened the door with precise punctuality and ushered him inside. He introduced himself, inquired if Lucifer needed anything before they began, and then asked some casual “warm-up” questions. The script was unchanged since Lucifer’s time on the other side of that table. After the pleasantries came the only question that mattered in Heaven.

“Do you repent of your sins and come to the Lord asking forgiveness?”

Lucifer had no false modesty about his oratorical prowess. He had prepared an ode of contrition that could inspire men to form new religions of redemption, and make the Archangels themselves blubber with teary compassion. It almost seemed a waste to debut it to this fluttering baby whose name he had already forgotten. His eyes downcast, a penitent smile on his lips, he gave his answer.

“No, and no.”

Lucifer blinked. Words spun of gold got lost somewhere between his mind and his tongue, and raw truth — unbidden, undecorated and irretrievable — came out instead. This place! All his subtle talents, developed and honed in the long years since the Fall, counted for nothing in Heaven. The final bit of artifice, his own illusions, flaked away like charred skin. The cherub’s big eyes, the color of a clear noon-day sky, held bottomless pity.

“Thank you for your time.”

Lucifer stared at the objects in the tiny interview room, from the tasteful furniture and neat stacks of writing parchment to the way the color of the walls gently diffused light. The smallest things in Heaven were truly lovely. But they would never value him here. He could spend an eternity trying, with the same result. Even Heaven wasn’t worth that. “Thank you for your indulgence, little brother.”

Outside, he could feel Heaven rejecting him, its spaces folding away like a delicate sea creature recoiling its fronds. He expected the sudden wave of vertigo — he had felt it first when being cast from the only home he knew. A second time he Fell, his body gaining speed, his feathers bursting into flame, searing, curling black. He felt no pain at all this time.

This time he was falling home.