Stepping Out of My Comfort Zone
Read Time: 4 Minutes
Words by Beth Salyers
“I have to do what?”
Standing in the doorway, wind and altitude doing nothing to help my nerves.
They say I’m prepared, that I’ll be okay, that I know how to pull the ‘chute string.
I wanted this. I want this. I can feel it in my bones. I am this. But I’m scared.
Since when is stepping in harder than stepping out?
----
It’s not the same as gazing out from my window seat, tray table open, a beverage to quench my thirst. Spotify is serving up my latest ‘Girl-Boss-Empowerment-Feminist-Power-Anthem’ playlist. ‘
My ears signal to my brain the intake of a dreamy elixir of ‘fuck yeah, I’ve got this.’
Perhaps because the volume drowns out the counter-argument chatter, but I roll with it.
That damn chatter keeps me up enough.
It’s an adrenaline-fueled flight and I feel like I know the clouds.
I grab a notebook to jot down these ideas dripping with serotonin.
----
I mean, if I don’t step out, I’ll be fine. I’ll just keep on keepin’ on. What’s wrong with this?
If I do step out, I’ll fall. I’ll pull the ‘chute string and I’ll float to the earth. I’ll land, share it on social media, and rave (expectedly) about how amazing and beautiful and perspective setting it turned out to be.
I’d ramble on about how scary it was, but that I’m happy I did it. I may even proclaim that I’m proud of myself.
But that would be a lie. Not in the sense that its untrue, but a lie in the fact that it’s not the most honest story I could tell.
The truth of the matter? It’s selfish and I just want to resolve this dissonance that continually rumbles in my veins.
_____
If I just go ahead and jump and follow protocol, this will all be over.
_____
Trembling hands, tear-filled eyes, wind-burn perceived across my front body. But that’s silly, I hear myself think, I’m covered head to toe from the elements.
But then a deep vastness makes itself apparent within my being. I feel all of the elements these clothes, this jumpsuit, these goggles, this helmet don’t come even close to protecting.
I feel a vibration – it’s go time – the man with a clipboard is counting down…
“3”
“You can do this”
“I know”
“2”
“This is your dream. You dreamt this.”
“Yes.”
“1”
“Jump”
“Okay.”
And it’s so quiet.
“Can you hear me?”
There is no sound. Like the Badlands at night. I ask silently, is this what space sounds like?
“Can you hear me?”
“Can you hear me?”
I pull the ‘chute string.
I still hear nothing. But, oddly my perception of time has sped up despite a decrease in velocity. The canopy above whisks me through the air, but I can now orient myself – mountains, trees, sky, ground.
Funny how in the free fall, time seemed to stand still.
“Can you hear me?”
Yes, I’m listening, I hear my thoughts reply.
My feet reach for the ground as I begin to acclimate to the proportions of life on earth. Tall pine trees, distant mountains, a building to my right with a sign that says, Triumph Mechanics. There’s a group of people and a white van to my left.
I brace for impact.
“Tuck and roll,” I say aloud to no one but myself.
“Can you hear me?”
A jolt of recognition takes me from the present need – to land.
I begin pedaling my legs, instinctively, as if a bicycle had appeared under me. I pedal faster and faster – watching the approaching ground, or rather, more accurately, the ground observes the approaching me.
Into the dirt my feet go, but I’m not moving forward, just down. Like a Yorkie burying a tiny bone in a pile of blankets. My shoes become covered in dirt. Deeper and deeper. My knees are submerged. But still, I pedal.
The parachute canopy covers me like a circular circus tent of 42 t in diameter. I’m a quickly descending tent pole in the center.
The dirt is cool to the touch but its collective weight creates a warmth both novel and nostalgic. Like a recently plowed field just after a rainstorm, the scent of fertile soil intoxicates. As if the color green has a scent and it's been mixed with hues and aromas of sand, dirt, and clay.
I’ve been here before.
I look around at this subterranean landscape.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome home.”
-----
Stepping out? Out there?
There are contexts to observe, mannerisms to emulate, a fake-it-til-you-make-it brand of bravado, and enough headlines to dig through to find your people. There are protocols to follow, answers on Google, and usually a mediocre white man somewhere telling you you’re too...something.
But inside? Once you start to dismantle the strings, façades, the carefully crafted conditions of the status quo… you’re subterranean. There are equally all the choices and no choices. All the advice and no advice. The house rules are yours, the boundaries are yours, and every damn element is yours to touch, hold, illuminate. With a headlamp, of course, it’s dark down there.
But the secret? Despite the conditions, suffocation and starvation are less likely.
Since when is stepping in harder than stepping out?
Since forever.
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About the Author:
Beth Salyers is a magical combination of artist x scientist. She's the Founder + CEO of Custom Learning Atelier, where she and her insanely talented friends design learning experiences for and with change-makers and their organizations. Beth lives in New Orleans.
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