Whaddaya got to lose?
I once jumped out of an airplane. On purpose.
Wait, I should preface that by pointing out that I’m pretty acrophobic. I get woozy looking out the windows of skyscrapers. Standing on a rooftop fills me with vertigo. And I find the Ferris wheel far more terrifying than the rollercoaster. I inherited the condition from my mother, whether by nature or nurture.
Still, once, when I was about 25, I thought it might be a good idea to try skydiving. I wasn’t interested in doing one of those BS tandem jumps where you’re strapped to some expert skydiver’s back and you’re just along for the ride. I chose the “accelerated free fall” where you’re on your own. You step out of a proper plane and then careen toward the ground at 130 miles per hour with only your wits to save you.
My best friend at the time happily joined me, and the two of us took a two-day crash course (terrible name) in skydiving. A few days later, we boarded a small airplane with no doors along with six or seven other nutjobs. We took off from a tiny runway in Watsonville CA on a cloudless, idyllic summer day. The lot of us were pretty quiet as we ascended, mostly because it was so thunderous in the plane that it was impossible to carry on a conversation. After about fifteen minutes, our guide shouted that we had reached twelve thousand feet. It was time.
We lined up and inched our way towards the open door. I watched, incredulous, as one by one, each of my comrades disappeared into the sky. It went quickly, there wasn’t much time to think. When it was my turn, I slid my body in front of the opening as I was taught, my white knuckles gripping the metal handles at the edge and top of the doorway. I marveled at the strength of the wind pulling ceaselessly at the bulky backpack strapped behind me. The guide, his face inches from mine yelled “Three…two…one…release!” I let the handles slip out of my grasp, and gravity did its job.
Instantly, the noise changed. The airplane’s engine and wind quickly disappeared, replaced by a silent vortex of air pressure that seemed both silent and deafening. I didn’t feel like I was flying. I wasn’t able to enjoy the view of the coastline, or the weightlessness, or the “God’s eye view” perspective (contrary to the stories my peers shared when we finally reconvened in the back of the pickup that retrieved us where we landed). I mostly had a disorienting, out-of-body experience, and to this day I don’t really know how I was able to pull the ripcord. I survived. But it wasn’t some miracle moment of revelation. My fear of heights never subsided. And, unlike the friend I dragged along, I never did it again.
I did a lot of crazy things in my teens and twenties. From world travel with little preparation to imbibing high doses of psychedelic drugs, to seeking out hot chile peppers, to offering provocative comments and truth bombs at any occasion— I considered my adventurousness one of my defining characteristics. Led by my father’s principled rejection of rules, I questioned laws, customs, and conventions, believing that there was always room and reason to tug at the boundaries. When in doubt, my default was to dive in. Go a little further. Order the weirdest thing on the menu. Leap and the net shall appear.
Cut to: twenty five years later, and somehow, I’ve grown unrecognizable. I’m overly cautious, unbearably hesitant, and fundamentally change-averse. I deliberate and research every decision to the point of paralysis. I feel hobbled by the enormity of our climate issues (both terrestrial and political), and can’t figure out where my career energy would best be spent; In trying to decide what school our kids should attend, I’m dumbstruck. I play out every negative permutation, and wind up making every decision from a defensive posture — avoiding possible pain rather than pursuing possible gain. Adventurous? I’m barely able to commit to a lunch order.
My wife recently got Lasik surgery. She had mentioned it offhandedly to me a couple months ago — her vision had worsened to the point where her eye doctor was recommending three different prescriptions, so she’d have to change glasses like fifteen times a day. The surgery would obviate all of that, at least for another decade or so (when she may need reading glasses). Of course I agreed that it was a good idea, but I didn’t really register the date she had scheduled for the surgery and it snuck up on me.
The day of the surgery, I was anxious. She was not. Driving to the appointment, I was angry, I felt forced, pulled, dragged forward, as she, seemingly untroubled, eagerly looked towards a brighter future. Of course I want her to be freed of glasses, to be able to see more clearly and better. But there was a risk. She could be blinded. Or who knows what else. Did we have to rush into this? Had she even discussed the timing with me? I couldn’t remember. But there she went, as was her nature, pushing forward, onward, upward. Certainly that was part of what attracted me to her in the first place — something we had in common. Make shit happen. Keep improving. Take thoughtful risks, live actively and joyously.
The surgery was predictably effortless. Flawless. She was ecstatic, rightfully so, yet I felt whipsawed, recovering slowly, peeking out from behind a rock and feeling relieved that the world hadn’t ended. She was right. She almost always is.
It was the same with our house. Over the last two years we tore down our (small, falling apart) house and built a (big, luxurious) new one on the same property. She had a vision, found the builder, did the diligence to verify that the finances worked, and presented me with an easy decision: We get a incredible new house at a fraction of the cost of moving. Yet still I hesitated: It would be a lot of work, things could go wrong, the economy could shift, climate change may turn California into a barren desert, and don’t forget that eventually the sun will expand and engulf the Earth altogether….
Fortunately for me, my wife patiently keeps nudging, dreaming, doing. And so our life has grown. We married. Had a child. Then, a second. We built the new house, and with her coaxing, I’ve stopped working at jobs where I was unseen, unappreciated, or unhappy. I wrote my memoir and it’s coming out soon. We continue to grow and improve our lives. She’s right. And I am wrong. My reticence is unwarranted. And I’m left feeling terrible. Even more unsure. Unable to trust my gut. What’s behind my hesitation? When did I get to be so conservative; “leave good enough alone!” Why am I so suspicious and resistant?
I brought all this up with a dear friend, who has known me since my more gallant days, and he smiled and shook his head, seeing plainly through what felt impervious to me. “It’s easy to take risks when you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said.
Suddenly I felt like the prism through which I see the world was rotated 180 degrees, blinding me with colors where once was white light.
My impetuous youth wasn’t heroic it was headlong. It was a form of escape, a way to cope with fear, to cover for insecurity, for my lack of trust in the world. And now, I’ve built some security, tentatively began to trust. And moreso, I have the obligation to be a source of security. Of course I’m more cautious — I’ve got so much to lose.
Despite thinking it would never happen, I finally opened my heart and luckily, phenomenally, I found a loving, beautiful partner filled with ambition, with clear (now, clearer) vision, and confidence. Someone who trusts the world. Someone whom I cherish and desperately fear losing. And now, two young children, each a miracle full of joy and curiosity and an infuriating similarity to myself. Their loss or suffering is unimaginable. I cannot help but do whatever I can to avoid their discomfort or pain.
Couple that with the natural experience of growing up: witnessing the hazards and perils that lurk, nursing the wounds of my failures and foibles, and having the wind knocked out of me more than a few times. Perhaps now I’ve grown overly circumspect because of my earlier foolhardiness, not despite it.
Yet, my current bearing isn’t sufficient. I don’t want to live this way. I don’t want to model timidity or cowardice for my children. Besides, despite life’s snares, there is still so much beauty to behold and pursue, and that’s only available to those willing risk losing what they have. Growth and insight only come through overcoming challenges. And while I’ll never be as willful or resilient as I was in my youth, and my bones may be more brittle and my hair thinner, I must find a way to dig deep and leap anyway, and trust that a net awaits.
Fortune favors the bold sayeth Virgil. Hopefully fortune can favor the bald(ing) too.
