Summer birthday parties were the best. A lake was always involved, as we lived in the land of 10,000. It was the beginning of our tweens. Everything was changing. No more pin the tail on the donkey. Boys were now invited. We gave thought to our swimsuits and how much cake we were eating. It wasn’t enough that our bodies were daring us in every direction, but so were our peers.

It was her father who hung the thick rope from the tree. It had a large knot at the bottom for standing. I watched the first boy do it. He pulled the rope taut at the height of the bank. Took a few running steps. Flung himself over the open water. (This is where my heart suspended in time just watching him.) Then at the peak of his swing, he let go. Plunged into the water. Whoops and hollers and hands raised in the air. A handful of others tried it. Mostly boys. The others found their way to the pontoon, or hammock. But I stood and watched. I was in that unenviable position of wanting to do it, but terrified. So I stayed planted. It wasn’t the height. I could deal with that. The swinging part looked actually fun. I loved the water, so it wasn’t that. It was the letting go. You had to let go. To swing back to land could mean hitting the tree. Scraping your feet. Worst of all, the embarrassment of the return.

I suppose that’s always the hardest part. I struggle with it now. This thing weighing on my heart. Causing such pain. This rope that I cling to. Why don’t I just let it go? I know this. I have to let it go. Even as I sit here typing, on the edge of this bank, I know it. So why do I remain planted? My heart paining with each breath.

I don’t remember grabbing it. It was flung in my direction, and short of being hit in the head, I took the rope in my hands. It seemed in slow motion. My feet began to move. Why were they moving? My heart was sweating more than my hands. Without my knowlege or permission I was over open water. “Let gooooooo!!!!!!!!!” I don’t know if it was the voice in my head, or the ones on shore, but I listened, and released my grip. I fell, and for a moment, flew, into the blue. Splash. Relief. Joy. I rose above both water and fear.

I’ve heard that in some languages there is only one word for forgiveness and freedom. Perhaps they have it right. I can feel the rope in my hand. It’s time to let it go. Our moments are brief. And I want to fly.