I'm so grateful that I know what it feels like, falling through clouds at a scary-as-hell velocity.
I look up, and all I can think of is: how soon before I can get back? After the helluva adrenaline rush, I felt alive and tranquil. The earth was safely tucked away in its miniature proportions of fields & roads. For a few minutes, I didn't have to deal with any of that. Sadness. Car rides. The whole logistics of my new life.
Was this what birds feel constantly? The peace of in-between? I wanted to stay there forever.
When I landed, I couldn't stop smiling. I felt serenely happy, but joltish too, the way I feel after a really long tattoo session. All those endorphins swimming around, bumping into my insides ...
And then my jump instructor kissed my hand, and I felt goofishly happy about that too. It's nice to be acknowledged in that red-blooded way.
I wrote a poem about the whole experience and workshopped it for class last night. My fellow poetesses used words like "sensual" and "awakening." They encouraged me to go deeper, pull the physicality and eroticism through the images, like a bright red yarn pulled through a pale-hued sweater.
More goofy smiling. And then this morning, a co-worker pulled out her iphone and said: Look. Half off skydiving. Do you want me to send you the link?
I was just ending my hellish shift of midnight to eight (stretching on to nine), but the glassy surface of her iphone made me break into an impromptu dance.
Oh my God, how much I love the sky.