Jump

What do they think about in mid-air?

I crossed the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge yesterday on my way to Albuquerque, and this is what came to mind: I wonder what they think about after they have taken the leap from the precipice descending to the narrow ribbon of river below, passing the red craggy outcroppings of dark volcanic basalt rock. Do they notice the small caves where birds nest or the footpaths of Big Horn sheep? Do they go slowly enough to think about what it feels like to free-fall to an instant death? When they first take the leap, do they think, oh, my god, what have I done and experience a regret that is irreversible?

Once the leap is taken, there is no going back, no replay on the clicker, no opportunity to reconsider. I see this as a metaphor for change, although once I put an act in motion, I can say, stop, wait, this isn’t the best time, if my ego allows it and I have the courage to recognize an impending mistake. But once the deed is done, a momentum takes shape that makes change almost impossible. The only other option is to see what happens next and take a different direction if the road becomes bumpy and impassable. That is, if one is on solid ground, not flying through space on a rapid descent to self-destruction.

Leap is one of those words that can be interpreted as accepting something eagerly. As in, He leapt at the chance. She leaped forward to accept the award. She was far ahead of the competition by leaps and bounds. He took it as a leap of faith. Jump is in a similar category. She made him jump through hoops. He jumped at the chance. I woke up with a jump. It does not necessarily mean that he jumped off the bridge or that he took a fatal leap.

Does it take courage or cowardice to leap from the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge? What goes on in the mind of a nineteen-year-old who runs from the security officer who is intent on stopping him (they are all young men), evading the barriers and warnings, to end a life just beginning? How deep is the despair? Why didn’t anyone see or help him? Was this inevitable regardless of who was there to offer support?

All this was triggered by a brief conversation I had with a writer friend on Tuesday, who needed to cross the bridge on Easter Sunday. It was shut closed. The tragedy had just happened. Taos County Sheriff’s and emergency vehicle lights were flashing, blinding the onlookers. She turned around to go home, to return another day. This had an impact on me. I live on the last road before the gorge bridge.

Another friend, Leslie, asked me to write about courage and what it took for me to step onto an unknown path from security to risk, my own jumping-off point. These were a series of steps over a lifetime, each one riskier than the last, I think, but fully shaped me. I was raised in a household of risk-averse parents who encouraged me to choose a secure career path, one already familiar to them, which I interpreted as boring and mundane. So, I rejected their urgings and leaped onto a moving conveyor belt of life to be determined by me alone.

Change takes practice, and courage is developed. It’s not something that happens instantly, unless one is in free-fall. My favorite motto is: Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. It’s scary, and the future is unknown. I often thought of myself trapped inside the body of an empty Pinot Noir bottle, wriggling slowly through the narrow neck to renewal and freedom. I convinced myself that if a decision doesn’t work out, I have the resilience, resolve, and self-assurance to know I’ll be okay, and that something else will materialize. I’ve traveled this life path mostly independently, influenced to some degree by husbands and partners. In the end, I was set on making my own way in the world, determined, often impulsive, perhaps driven.

I grew up in Southern California and learned to drive the nearly empty freeways at age 16, going fast. I moved to San Francisco as a young adult, where I became an adventurer, hiking the Sierras and exploring the urban landscape I loved. Soon after, I reluctantly relocated to South Bend, Indiana, to become a mother, stretching beyond the matronly persona of other young women my age, to start a gourmet cookware shop and cooking school. When it closed, I spent the next eight years in university continuing education, a career path that would inform my life. The glass ceiling there could not be broken, and despite 20-year-long friendships, I tore myself away to Charlottesville, Virginia, then to Washington, D.C., and again to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I said I could be a development officer when I had no direct experience in the field. If a man could say so, so could I. While at UNC, I started Oaxaca Cultural Navigator because I fell in love with Teotitlan del Valle and Oaxaca, and wanted to figure out a way to go back, and back, again.

I don’t know exactly what propelled me to leap off into the unknown. I don’t know that I would call it courage. It felt more like a need to manifest who I really was deep inside of me, who needed to express creativity, connection, and meaning by exploring and revealing the unknown. This became a 40-year practice, so that change, innovation, and discovery become easier each time it is completed, but it never really is complete; it’s a work in progress until the end, when the body crashes into the ultimate unknown. There are no guardrails for end-of-life, if one dies by natural causes. (I don’t think suicide is one of them.)

My dear friend Natalie from South Bend days, who is only a few years older than me, enjoys her days in a Barcalounger, watching the National Geographic channel, taking lunch in her room, cared for by assisted living. I am doing core exercises and weight-lifting to be stronger for a May 2027 return to Japan. I am intent on living to 100, perhaps beyond. I am intent on continuing to change, albeit differently than in the past. I am intent on propelling myself into the future.

The Rio Grande and Gorge Bridge, Taos County, New Mexico