Jump. Fall. Fly.

The stomach butterflies are step-dancing to a sprightly slip jig as I slide forward. The jump door of the plane yawns ahead and my grip on the overhead rail is tighter than I’d like. Three. Two. One. The man immediately ahead of me disappears into blueness. “Clear.” The slap on my arm. “Go.” And then I’m the one with both arms outstretched, hurtling into the unknown.

Gravity does all the work. It really isn’t a jump as much as it is a release, a letting go of the firm and the familiar in favor of a dizzying 8,000 foot free-fall followed by a spectacular mile-long float to the ground. It is the closest thing to being a bird that I’ll ever experience.

Palo verde and catclaw acacia trees are tiny polka dots scattered across the rumpled tan of desert hills and washes. At a mile above the surface of the Earth, with the wind roaring in my ears, I pull the cord. The chute slaps out behind me, then flares like a sail made of rainbowed silk. I am a feather from the wing of an eagle, spiraling back down to the ground; I am a different woman coming down than the one who went aloft.

It’s been almost fifteen years, but when I remember that jump, I still smile. Correction: I still grin my fool head off. Every once in a while I think about skydiving again, but then sanity returns. I guess I really am getting old. Memories seem to be sufficient these days. I remember the things that I’ve done since, other ways I fueled a need for adrenaline – feet on terra firma, oars in water. It’s still a great metaphor, though. These days I’m hanging onto a different frame, looking into what lies ahead, grinning and ready to jump. Three. Two. One…