I’m afraid of heights, but I love roller-coasters.
The rush of the drop. The sail into the return space.
The click-click-knowing the adventure is done and I’ve taken a chance.
The ride is scary, but the arrival—-with the sudden absence of wind blowing and screaming and plummets and rises-—the arrival at the end, is what the roller coaster is all about.
I never scream on roller coasters. I stuff the sound in and hold tight to the rail. I feel embarrassed to let the noise out. What will those around me think?
Those around me. The ones I worry about? They are too busy carrying on with their hands in the air.
All the same, I stay silent.
Exhilarated.
Quiet. processing.
Over a year ago, I write a blog about wanting to ride in a convertible. Feeling comfort in a black interior. A thrill as the roof rolls back. A freedom in my hair blowing everywhere. It is that freedom in looking outward that I crave. The feeling of flying yet being in control. I speak of destination. I feel sure that I know where I am going.
In April of 2014, I take a trip with my girlfriends. I cry hard on the return flight and clutch the hand of my best friend as she hands me tissue after tissue. I sob as she encourages me to let it out. To not mask what I am feeling. I hold her hand silently and pray as we fly. I look out the window to the clouds below and remember what it was like to be a child with the confidence that walking on those clouds was possible.
I wonder about prayer and G-d at that moment. About if it would be possible, somehow, to measure force or velocity or weight of prayer in large group gatherings. To measure Mass.
Mass of prayer. A prayer Mass.
It makes sense.
During horrific events like a plane crash or a bombing, if we were able to hook victims up to some sort of wave device, would we be able to move the needle simply with the massive force of hope? Could their prayer and power be harnessed and measured? Surely, at that moment, humanity all cries out with the same sentiments.
Save me.
Save me.
Help me.
Please. Please.
Give me strength.
Give me strength.
I wonder, as I place my fingers between those of my best friend, if prayer is its own cloud. Tangible. Tactile. Touchable.
A cottony covering on which we may tread.
A belief we hold as children that evolves to a faith we nurture as adults.
I jot down these words as we begin our descent:
The Landing of Flight 1670
Collective bargaining agreement
you can measure,
prayer power,
on departure. Take off.
Arrival. Death and Birth. The end and start.
The bumps increase the most;
the tangible forcefield created
by shared hopes and dreams.
He is a Son.
A Hand.
A Spirit.
Allah or Mohammed.
Adonai.
A deity direct dial from any
locale.
Call collect or, no,
no,
No phone necessary.
Why search for proof?
Does it matter?
Tap into the seismograph
waves of your soul.
White lace and gossamer breath.
I’ve spent my entire life being sure.
I planned.
I perfected.
I appeased stringent and invisible guidelines.
I smiled visible smiles.
I held onto the rails and did.not.scream.
I ran endurance races earned Masters Cum Laude nailed interviews had parties cleaned and cooked and washed and folded and sat in the NICU and the PICU and sang and danced and read and mothered and — I stopped.
Stop.
I needed to stop. I needed to say give me strength.
Give me. Strength.
Hear me. Speak.
I thought I knew where I was going. I am so glad, now, that I didn’t. I am glad for that roller coaster drop. For the ride in the convertible.
I am glad that I am no longer afraid. I am so fortunate that I have been taught to let sound out.
To drop the mask.
To take a hand.
To trust.
To open myself.
To walk back into the classroom. To teach. Write. Breathe.
To have faith. In so many things.
In love.
In my children.
In myself.
That scary roller-coaster drop into the return space is merely an arrival at a destination.
And the rail we can choose to hold? That’s faith.
I have learned to not look at the others carrying on with their hands in the air.
The only one watching, the one that matters,
is You.
