The Bloody Doors Off

I wish I could fly. I really do. But I’m kinda scared of heights. It’s a dichotomy. When I was young, I used to dream of flying, but it was always just a couple of feet above the ground. I was really going for it when I got above the hydro wires on my street.

Despite the apprehension, I still yearned to fly. I remember when a neighbour took me and his daughter up in his bi-plane. He did a couple of barrel rolls and whatnot and it scared the absolute crap out of me. I white-knuckled it the entire time. And yet.

Traveling to the top of the CN Tower in the glass elevator? Always closed my eyes. It was even a task to look down when I got there. And yet.

I bungee-jumped once at the CNE (even video-taped it as proof). Talk about terrifying. It took a few countdowns before I actually leapt. After I was brought down, my blood pressure dropped so low they had to get me to a medical bay until I stabilized.

And yet.

I yearn to fly. I yearn to stretch out my arms, get taken up by the wind, and soar.

Okay, metaphorically.

This past year, I’ve felt absolutely grounded. Tethered to the earth by a giant invisible weight. With each setback, every rejection, every perceived failure, it just got heavier.

And we all know just how crushed I felt emotionally and mentally two weeks ago.

But today, today I think, maybe I’m ready to start learning how to fly again.

A foot off the ground would be a nice start.