Have Fun Falling Posts
The Unknown
Have Fun Falling
One night I had a dream.
I was standing on a limestone cliff in the Mediterranean. Looking far below at sparkling blue waters crashing against a rocky shore, I debated whether to jump.
It was a perfect summer day. Golden sunshine, blue skies. The sea was beckoning—but the drop was a long one. Two people had jumped shortly before and were beginning the arduous, switchbacked climb back up the cliff. Knowing they had made the jump was reassuring, but still I hesitated. I wanted to do it. I knew I should do it. But I was afraid.
Then came a voice; or, perhaps, a knowing.
“Jump.”
That wasn’t all.
“And have fun falling.”
My entire perspective shifted. In my resistance, fixated on the risk, I had failed to see the bigger picture.
Yes, I was supposed to jump; that I already knew. But there was more to it. The challenge wasn’t merely about facing my fears. It was about throwing myself completely into the experience once I had. I was supposed to jump with my eyes open, to savor the feel of being airborne, to relish the adrenaline rush, to take delight as the water buffered my fall. I was supposed to do a flip in midair, maybe even plunge into the water headfirst, turning my haphazard free fall into a brazen dive. Jumping was merely the first step. I was supposed to wholeheartedly open myself to what followed, to engage with it completely. Otherwise, there was little point in making the jump at all.
There was more still.
From the base of my spine, a red ribbon of energy extended up into the sky. I thought of an umbilical cord; it didn’t matter that it was coming out of my back. To the contrary, that was the point: someone or something had my back. I could have fun falling, because I would be taken care of. There was nothing to fear.
As I lay in bed replaying the dream, increasingly it felt imperative that I not lose sight of its messages.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Taking a brown paper bag out of the cupboard, I cut out the bag’s front panel. I then rummaged through my drawers until I found a long-neglected box of crayons. Everything I needed now at my disposal, I drew an illustration of my dream: an image of myself standing on the cliff, a red ribbon extending into the sky and, far below, the Mediterranean crashing against a rocky shore.
When my clumsy rendering was complete, I hung it on the refrigerator. I would see it there again and again throughout the day. Although I was actually sort of happy with—if not secretly proud of—my creation, anyone who didn’t know better was sure to take it for the cumbersome work of a school child.
I knew better. What I didn’t know was how important the drawing would prove to be over the coming weeks and months.
— Excerpted from my forthcoming book
Have you ever had a dream that made a big difference in your waking life? I would love to hear about it below!