A year ago I was sitting in my parents’ house, feeling like I was standing on the precipice to a canyon, though I was surrounded in fog. I had no idea of the topography of the canyon. All I knew was that I was going to jump.
I was scared. I was nervous. I was a little sad. I was very excited.
On January 11th, I tiptoed to the edge with a flight to San Francisco; on January 13th I leaped. There was a certain period of free fall: I had no clue which way was up, only that the wind was rushing past my face. The fog thinned slightly, but I still could not make out the entirety of the landscape around me. I had some guides along the way, telling me not to flap my arms so hard and to just let the pull of gravity do its thing.
I don’t know when exactly my parachute opened, but it did. The hard and fast free fall has slowed to a gentle descent. I got my chute tangled in some trees that grow out of the canyon walls a couple of times, but the local inhabitants helped to untangle me. The fog has lifted even more, though it still lingers. I can see my surroundings and make sense of where I am.
I’m still making my way down to the bottom of the canyon; I’m not even sure if I can see it yet. I’m not even halfway there. I’ve got a number of other people, right there alongside me. Some of them landed on trails that lead back to the lip of the canyon, and that is their path. But others I have come to rely on; come to know that when I start to go into a spin they will come and hold my hand to right me again. I do the same for them. There are inhabitants of this canyon that have taken a leap alongside me as well, and their bravery amazes me.
I’ve done a lot of things this year and gone a lot of places. I’ve done a poor job of keeping most of the resolutions I wrote last year, but I don’t think I could have done much better. I did my best, and I think I’ve done good.