Suspension

I suppose I expected I’d come across more suspension bridges in my adult life, having witnessed far too many harrowing escapes in movies and television series. But I have hovered over an abyss, lost my footing on the decrepit slats of that bridge, afraid I’d fall into nothingness and that it would hurt to crash to the ground. Others would comfort me with the reality that I’d be dead before I hit the ground. I’d die in midair, lose oxygen, burst open my lungs and blood vessels. I can’t really remember which, but I know that neither offered solace.

Photo by Leonard von Bibra on Unsplash

When I did the tree top course with my family for my eldest’s birthday years ago, I was startled by how terrified I was of falling to my death, despite having cables and ropes to secure me. My body trembled as I struggled to take each step, unsure where to focus my gaze. That I was walking this course with my children amplified my terror. Though I tried to model courage and strength, my tears revealed just how frightened I was, and I called out,

I can’t do this! I can’t!

I was sure I would throw up.

To admit to my children, to reveal just how human I truly was, and that I was afraid of falling, freed me. Freed us all.

I wake up each morning in that state of freefall. Like I am falling to my death, but when I hit the ground, I open my eyes to my ceiling or the dog’s tail in my face.

There are those who are truly living the Kafkaesque, the dystopian, the horror tale from which they cannot awaken, and I know this each morning as the stardust crusting my eyelashes is wiped away.

We are witness to extreme human suffering. If we won’t look at it, we feel it in our bones, all of us sharing the same vibrating source DNA. We are killing ourselves.

I took panicked breaths, this after years of a breathwork practice that started my day. It was hard to ground while stepping on planks in the air. I could see families and friends walking different paths, kids holding balloons, the merry-go-round turning along to that monkey-grinder music. The course is suspended over a zoo, and I’d catch sight of a condor or a red panda or some other creature going about its day in captivity. I wondered if we stopped to look at it all before leaving our bodies behind. Would we consider all we’d had and didn’t notice or took for granted? I wondered if, even harnessed, I would fall to my death.

I have hovered over spaces, watching, feeling my breath from the inside, ringing my ears, touched my heart and throat to calm myself, coaxing the scream, the words so I don’t choke to death on the unsaid. I was terrified. I am.

Once we make the decision to run across the bridge, to just go for it, the advice is always the same. Don’t look down, stay focused on the other side, and hold tight to the sides. Predictably, as you make it across, the bridge will collapse behind you, leaving you only one direction.

There are people all over the world running. Running across the bridge, taking the leap, clutching the hands of their children, of their loved ones. Running. Trying to get away from danger, finding there are few spaces to hide. Running. We blush with shame at witnessing one another’s nakedness. Look away because we know we will have to act if we stare too long. We will feel the itch in our own skin, the twitch to act, and fear that we won’t make it across the bridge before it collapses. The sight of the bridge, slats broken and gone is enough to send us into a panic.

But we are up here with our children watching. We must tell them we are afraid. We must take a step, any step. If we fall, we disintegrate into each other. If we land, we wake up, staring at the clouds, our ceiling, and begin dreaming anew. The fear cannot be enough to keep us from flying, nor the shame enough from giving a damn again. We will choke on the words unspoken.