I once was

So, I've been quiet here recently. Procrastinating really. The date since my last post grows further and further into the past, and instead of doing something about it (like perhaps write, as a writer should do, does), I've let it simply haunt me and remain unchanged.

Sometimes I use time as an excuse, as in, I have no time to do that today (sometimes this is acceptable...most times, well, not really). Most of the time I think it's because I  feel I should have something so prosaic, so profound, so paramount to write about that I can't fulfill my own expectation....and instead choose not to write at all.

Very recently, however, a good friend of me reminded me that this is not what this blog is about (thanks, Sue). Although public and with a small "readership" (one that I would love to expand of course), really this space is all about me -- who I am, who I want to be, and where I'm going. (Yes, I stole that directly from you, Sue. Thanks for that as well.) I start writing "half-blog" entries in my head so often, but then the workday comes and both they and the time fade away before I grab onto them firmly and set them down here. So instead of always feeling like this blog has to be lofty, or perfect, or moving, or targeted, or newsworthy, or readworthy, or even "good" (whatever that means), I'm going to try more to just write. And not judge. And not hesitate. And not over-think. And not procrastinate. Just write.

So this morning I was thinking about when I used be a skydiver. Distinction -- not when I went skydiving, but when I considered myself a skydiver. The short story is that my sister and I did it together -- I gave it to her as a Christmas gift certificate and told her that when she was ready to redeem it, I would go with her. We decided to do it the "real" way -- no, I'm not talking about tandem, nor about static line. We went hard-core all they way -- it's called AFF, Accelerated Freefall. What it means is that after 12 hours of class, one rain delay and another four-hour review, my sister and I went up to 13,000 feet, hung from the wing of the plane, and with ONLY an instructor holding on to our jumpsuits -- a mere handful of fabric, no straps, no safety net, just a hand-hold more to steady us in flight than as any kind of assistance -- we jumped out, freefell, pulled our own cord, and floated down all completely solo. This is one of those points where even years later, words don't really describe it....

But that's not the point of the story. Nor is the point that my sister left her evil monster husband after that first jump day (although it could be, given the point of this post -- she'd been married to him for 20, yes, 20 years, and leaving him after that jump? No coincidence I think). Nor is it that we went back for a second jump and did it all again (only this time we did maneuvers in mid-air). The point is that I thought myself a skydiver. A fearless, jeep-driving, wild woman, cool-girl skydiver. Not just someone who jumped out of planes, but a skydiver. The word had weight. I did things like that back then -- weighty, somewhat crazy things like driving solo across the western half of the country in my jeep (pre-cell days, remember). Hiking the Grand Canyon. Playing rugby. Going rock-climbing for four hours before my shift at a crazy restaurant where I would spend the following 10 hours absolutely running my tail off. Writing poetry. Painting watercolor scenes at the pond by my house. Driving by airports and dreaming of flying...the energy I had, the romantic notions, the ideas...

My memory of that girl I was is jaded -- on the surface, she seems so confident, so daring, so free and fearless. And for the most part, I was (dare I say, still am?). But the truth is that I was also alone way back then. Lonely. Achingly, terribly, horribly so. And although I miss those days somewhat -- truly, who doesn't miss the crazy, carefreeness of their youth? -- I'm no longer that fly-solo-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl. I have a husband who is my whole heart (and who, ironically, is a pilot -- my oldest of friends find that hilarious), I have a son (a child, a wee boy, the ultimate light of my life, the center of my soul), and a life with them that I love so very much and that I waited so very long for. I have so much. So very, very much.

I want to remember these things for the good that they were. I want Grif to know that I drove a blue jeep for 17 years (still miss ya, Big Blue). That I was the captain of my college rugby team (and we were good), that the only times I've been to the Grand Canyon have been by myself. That I once spent a month crewing a 34-foot sailboat and sailing around the Virgin Islands. That I bought a harmonica determined to spend every day playing it but never did. That I've started two different books, but not yet finished either. That all these things made me the woman, wife, mother, writer I am today. And that I wasn't afraid to do any of them. To try them. Or to leave them in the past where, for now, they belong as good, wonderful, gotta-smile-at-that memories that remind me I'm still beautiful, strong and free. I can't wait to tell him that I wasn't afraid to step out of that plane....and let go. And fall.