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I’m suspended above an unimaginably huge chasm, a cleft in the earth both wide and deep, a place of both brightness and shadow. This rope is far, far longer than I had ever imagined, stretched tightly and parallel to the earth. My feet dangle above an overtly alarming space; the broad floor of this valley must be thousands of feet below. And how far is it to the other side? To what, I wonder, is this rope attached at its end? My hands are large for my physical size, my arms are strong, but surely by now, the spiral-twisted strands of a thick rope are embedded permanently in my palms. And sometimes I do mind the ache in my shoulders, the straining of my muscles. Hand over hand, taking one new grip after another, slowly I progress. From time to time I stop, turn about with careful effort, and look back. I can no longer see how far the rope extends as it vanishes into the distance behind me. I can barely recall the point from which I began. I’ve been out here, now, for months. No. Years. It most definitely has been years.
It’s far more than symbolism. I’m actually where I’ve said. Figuratively, of course, and in no small way, literally. I dare not let go; I live on this rope. I eat, sleep, breathe and may also die, on this rope. It was my choice to come out here. I took a deep breath, and I began.
All of my life, this had been coming. So much for the prescience I’ve sometimes claimed, I never saw it until it arrived. I should have known there was a reason behind the workouts when I started them, and for once, was able to stick to them. I’d been pushing weights, all I could muster, until my chest ached and my heart pounded. I thought it might be the way I would die. But I would not stop and I will never stop. Because if I must die, it’s the way it should happen.
The day I left the safety of solid earth, I knew it would be a long trip. I didn’t know if I could make it across. But, then as now, I was not at all prepared to face my mortality. If I’m not immortal, I just don’t see it, and that’s the truth. But I don’t know if I’ve reached the halfway point, or if I’ve passed it. Or if I’m even capable of completing this journey.
Like any endeavor, I know why I started. On the other side, there is sure, sweet release. There’s something definable there, a final destination that must be reached. I will know exactly how Winston Churchill felt, hours before he addressed his nation for the first time about the realities of war.
I also suspect there’s someone waiting, someone I’ve missed for ever so long.
It’s so strange that I don’t know who that someone is. And it’s possible there is no one; but I think that’s human nature. If we want something badly enough, we begin to believe it exists. Thus we never really know if something ethereal has changed state. Trust me, it can and it does happen.
I’ve named this place above which I’m suspended, and it’s my title for this short piece. I think it’s also human nature to give a name to any place where so much time has been spent. And it fits; the reality of this place to me is stark. Earth is an amazingly beautiful planet, and the valley below may be the most attractive place upon it. The weather here changes, as does the time of day or night. The silvery ribbon of river winding far below my feet is often shrouded in mist. The mist rises beneath the warming rays of the morning sun until it shrouds me; and from here it advances to join the billows of clouds, still higher above. Of course, it rains, and I get wet. Snow collects on my head and on my shoulders. It gets cold out here at night, and in summer, it gets hot. But I’m still here. I manage it with a “second” wind drawn from the depths of my soul, a deepened gulp of new strength, gratefully taken hundreds of times. Daily I’m reminded that I should have changed my work boots before I ventured out, but one cannot go back to change the place from where one began. At least the boots keep my feet warm, and the high-tops protect my ankles when I boost them over the rope, to get some sleep. When I do, I awaken to the reality known to everyone else.
When the air is clear, I swear I can see for hundreds of miles in any direction. And life has not slowed in any way because of this rope. My best work has come from it. The further I progress, the better it gets. And then, there’s the music, always with me. Fault me for it if you wish, I couldn’t stop it if I tried. From here, entire magnificent symphonies have been composed and then forgotten, not a note if it written, or otherwise retained for posterity.
The music happens to be the only doubt I’ve ever had about the rightness of the objective at the end of this rope. It’s a serious doubt. But without doubt there would be no life at all. Without doubt, there would be no questioning, and thus, no resolution. I cannot speak for anyone else, but the necessity of the process seems obvious to me. And who knows. Perhaps I am immortal after all, and that journey will be the next rope. Ha, that's doubtful.
Because it’s only a rope, there is no safety harness involved, nor is there a net. But immortal or not, completed or not, this was a journey upon which I had to embark.
I had no choice whatsoever.
There is no turning back.
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