Falling

by Jill Euclide

Image credit: Bruce Christianson on Unsplash

As a little girl, I had a waking nightmare that haunted me just before sleep came-- my bed falling through the bedroom floor, through the cement basement- falling through space and time while I sat helpless, wrapped in my bedsheets and blankets, a closed mouth soundlessly screaming for help while my parents glanced unconcerned from their space on the couch, the television captivating more attention than I could manage to garner.

As I grew, those waking nightmares didn’t stop at falling through floors in my house. Bridges terrified me. Maybe the wind would wrestle the car out of a driver’s control and it somehow would veer too far to the right or maybe, the bridge would simply collapse beneath me. Rollercoasters and Ferris wheels earned their places of prestige— no ride was truly safe. I imagined slipping through the bars on the sky ride, flying out the back of a roller coaster car, having somehow eluded the safety harness. The floor of the Ferris wheel car always dropped out beneath me.  Any high tower, balcony, or vista that would allow me to have a bird’s eye view left me trembling and clinging to railings and walls behind me. Somehow, I would fall from those high heights to tragedy below.

Even now, walking down stairs, I cling to railings, knowing people who have fallen to their deaths, irreversibly damaging their brains when they hit their heads too hard in the wrong places, rendering themselves paralyzed after cracked vertebrae slice into their spinal column. (Having fallen down every set of stairs in every house I have ever resided, this fear is perhaps not so unfounded.)

I am afraid of falling- of feeling the pit of my stomach in my throat, my unuttered screams lodged in my larynx.

Maybe it is not the damage falling causes that I fear most. Maybe my actual fears are only indications of what I am not doing while clinging to bedsheets, railings, safety belts, and door handles. Maybe it is not the fear of dying, but rather the fear of living.

I am long past the age to be a fledgling making that first jump out of the nest. I am not Disney’s Rapunzel, creeping down from her tower for the first time, wrought iron pan in hand, tip-toing on the grass, and I am certainly no Icarus, ignorant of my reality. My wings are tightly sewn, a lifetime of knowledge knit with sweat and tears. Though I may veer too close to the sun at times, and singe the edges of their fragile fern-whisps, the bone and sinew of their core is solid and strong.

Even this knowledge is not enough to assure me of safety.

No longer the little girl of the past, helpless to even cry for help, I want to choose courage and jump again- crash through floors, bump down stairs, fall to the water bruised and beaten, swim through the river’s muddy darkness until I will risk to blossom out of the murkiness, a lotus, open to authentic living, no longer fearing the phoenix process of rebirth. It is not the absence of fear I seek, but rather, the wisdom of learning to walk beside her, hand in hand, choosing not simply to survive, but to live.

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Jill Euclide

As a wife and mother of five, Jill Euclide juggles family life while nurturing aspiring writers as a high school English teacher. An avid runner and passionate gardener, Jill finds joy in nurturing plants, words, and souls. Recently, she has rekindled her love for writing, proudly showcasing her work in various publications. With each word, she hopes to sow seeds of inspiration and empathy for fellow sojourners on the journey.