30 days to go
There
is (or was) at my old highschool an adventure ropes course. One of the
requirements to pass physical education was to make the trek across the parking
lot and, in small groups work your way from the small elements on the ground to
the bridges soaring 30 feet above, hanging in the trees in a vaguely
threatening and exciting way. At fifteen years old, and scared to death of
heights, I climbed my way up the iron rungs that had been nailed into a tree
that looked frighteningly thin to be supporting my hundred and eighty pounds,
not to mention the square wooden platform I was gradually, hesitatingly, making
my way toward. When I reached the top, I stayed for a moment on all fours,
working up the nerve to stand. The harness, connected tenuously to a thin strand
of rope was tight, and the crouching position I had willed myself into made the
thick woven straps dig into my legs, cutting off my circulation.
I
pulled myself up using the trunk of the tree as a crutch, and felt the lump in
my nervous teenage stomach drop a little lower as I felt the platform sway,
ever so slightly. Human beings, I thought to myself, whatever our ancestry, do
not belong in trees. I surveyed the course ahead. The course was composed of
four platforms suspended in the trees in a straight line. They hung from the
thick branches, suspended by a rope at each corner, so that even in the light
spring breeze that was rapidly cooling the sweat gathering on my brow, they
swung ever so slightly. The platforms were about five feet apart from each
other and the end of the course, but to my mind the gaps stretched to five
times that distance. The object, seemingly insane as it was, was to hurl
yourself from the relative safety of the first stationary platform out into the
void, landing on the nearest swinging one. This horrifying process needed to be
repeated four additional times until you arrived at the final platform, this
one stationary, and climbed your way down to the waiting ground.
Egged
on by the impatient gym teacher responsible for the safety rope currently
connected to the harness at my waist, I inched forward on the first platform.
Steeling myself, I looked out to the first swing, shut my eyes and expelled the
breath I had unconsciously been holding in. I opened my eyes and took another
deep breath. In through the mouth. Out through the nose. I breathed a quiet
prayer, and without looking down, darted forward and threw myself into the
abyss.
I leave
for Grenada in one month. It seems too short. Or too long. It’s hard to tell
these days, because I’m vacillating between extremes of panic and excitement.
On the one hand, excited and impatient, to paraphrase Colin Hay (via Scrubs of
course) for my real professional life to begin. On the other hand, the island
of Grenada is a big unknown for a New Jersey boy who’s never been out of the
country (unless you count Canada, and for some reason, no one ever seems to).
Fear of the unknown is the root cause of most of the anxious questions filling
your head at two a.m.: Can I compete with other students? Will I make friends?
What if there’s a mistake and I’m not registered for housing? Will I adjust to
island life?
The
answer to all of these questions, of course, is to go back to sleep. No sense
worrying when I’ll find the answers in a month. No sense missing out on the
precious few hours of rest I had before the alarm went off at 6:30. No sense
stressing over what I could not fix.
I like
to think of myself at 22 as relatively courageous. A huge part of playing rugby
is letting go of your fear. I usually don’t watch horror movies, because I
prefer comedies, but when I do I generally don’t find myself that afraid. The
dark doesn’t harbor any monsters. Snakes still cause me to instinctually jump
and cringe, but nothing else does.
I’m
hard pressed to explain, then, why the next four years scare me so much. Maybe
it’s because it’s the end-game. There are no more buffers, no more room for
error. I can’t use the excuses that carried me through my first year of college
anymore. But it’s more than just academic anxiety. I know that with hard work,
I can get the grades I need to graduate, the grades I need to ensure a good
residency placement.
Everyone
has told me how lucky I am to be studying in the Caribbean. A beautiful setting
for a great education. Sandy beaches and clear blue water. Being away from
Kayleigh will be tough, but it will only be a few months before she’ll join me
there.
As a
scientist, I’ve learned that knowledge and evidence are everything. A decision
made in the absence of evidence won’t be a good one. It’s hard to take on this
new chapter in my life with so few answers. I can’t see what’s ahead. Life is
like that sometimes. No matter how much prepare, sometimes the future is a
blurry, fuzzy, unknowable thing filled with uneven terrain and missing the
steady safety of solid ground.
I stood
(and stand) on the relatively solid, safe platform, and all I can see ahead is
a chaotic and constantly shifting series of landings between myself and my
goal. Fear doesn’t matter here. As I take that first running step and fling
myself out between the trees, I can look down in that split second and see the
people below, friends who helped me climb up the tree and convinced me to make
the leap. Some of them have already been across.
My fifteen-year-old self landed
easily on that first platform. And the second, and the third and fourth. Today,
thirty days away from another leap, I think about how it felt to land on the
shifting wood of that first platform. How at first I was filled with fear, and
how I realized, only after I had already done it, that I could.
I leave for Grenada in thirty
days. A leap to a platform 2100 miles away with almost no knowledge of what I
will find when I land on the other side. I’m full of questions that have no
answers. But when the flight takes off, and I glance down at the airport below,
and the people who have brought me to that moment, I will think back to that
first leap, filling my head not with the blind terror at the start, but the
elation of safe landings. I know I will arrive on the other side stronger and
smarter and more prepared for the future.
After all, I’ve already done it
once.
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