Wings

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” -Rumi

When I was young, I used to fly. I would run to the park after school and spend my afternoons swinging on the swing set, kicking my legs to get as high as I possibly could before hurling myself out into the air, over the sand and the grass. For a few moments, I would float against the sky before descending back down to the ground beneath my turquoise Converse high tops. I’d twist my ankle or jam my foot or tumble onto my back. I’d laugh and do it again. And again. Until the sun touched the horizon, which was my curfew back then.

I soared.

* * *

My therapist asks me, “What does fear feel like? When you are afraid, where do you feel it in your body?”

I feel it in my legs. My knees shake and it’s hard to make my feet move. Fear is heavy.

* * *

On the merry-go-round, I would perch on the edge of the bars, tightening my grip on the sun-scorched metal as it spun faster and faster. When it hit the right speed, I would fling my feet off of the rim and hold onto the bars with all of my strength. For a brief instant, I would be suspended in the air, my arms as straight as I could get them, my hands still clinging to the bars. And then I’d let go. I would land in the rocks and my arms and elbows would be scraped and bleeding. I’d laugh and do it again. And again. Until the sun touched the horizon.

I flew.

* * *

My therapist asks me, “When you are sad, where do you feel it in your body?”

I feel it in my arms. They go limp and feel like they’re made of cement. I feel it in my heart. Like it’s an exhausting effort for it just to keep beating. I feel defeated and heavy. Depression is heavy.

* * *

On Sunday afternoons, my neighbor Matt and I would race across the prairies to reach a set of grassy green hills that we would climb up and roll down over and over again. Until the stretch of streetlights lined along the neighborhood sidewalks would start to switch on, which was his curfew back then. We would tumble for hours down those hills, laughing the whole time, until we were so dizzy and punch-drunk that we couldn’t stand anymore. We’d collapse side by side in the grass, out of breath and our stomachs sore from laughing, floating outside of ourselves: up into the swirling, fading colors of the sky above us. And then we’d tumble down the hills again. And again. Until the streetlights flickered on and lit up the sidewalks.

We’d laugh and laugh as we staggered back to our houses in the twilight.

I floated.

* * *

My therapist asks me, “When you are resentful, where do you feel it in your body?"

I feel it in the pit of my stomach. Like I’ve been punched. Like I’m weighted down with stones. Everything is heavy.

* * *

What happened to me, to you, to all of us?

I used to fly.

When did it all become so heavy? When did I step through this twisted mirror where everything feels like cement, where flying and landing morph into falling and crashing?

I used to float.

How do I get back to those hills?