Last weekend I found myself sailing head first down a flight of stairs like I was in an action movie that just went slow motion to highlight my stellar kung fu moves.
As soon as I slipped I recalled every single TV show and movie where people fell down the stairs. It didn’t look so good. They always landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with legs pulled tight behind them like a carnival contortionist. An arm outstretched to brace the fall, only for the elbow to be facing inward instead of out. Head cocked unnaturally sideways with a tiny drop of blood escaping their lifeless lips.
I decided it at stair 3.
This is not the way I’m going down.
I tucked and rolled and eventually let go. Once I finished my bumpy descent, I popped up like my name was called on The Price is Right. My arms reaching for the sky. My feet a full foot off the ground.
I made it! I’m here! I’m alive…
After several Advil I spent some time in meditation, open to the message of this terrifying event. Life woke me up.
Over the past few months I’d slowed down to the point that I was carefully walking through jelly, safely daydreaming. I was taking it all for granted. The connectedness of our existence. The magic in these moments. The fragility of a simple bathroom break that led to cracked ribs, a lopsided down dog, and some gasp-worthy bruises poolside.
That feeling of falling lingers with me haunting my summer haziness, forcing me to bring my awareness to the present and really be here. The memory challenges me… to love more than I thought possible, to give everything without question, and sometimes, even fall fearlessly into whatever lies ahead.