The first feeling upon walking into Emerald City Trapeze is enchantment. Taking in the textures of the heavy velvet curtains, eyeing the dauntingly high ropes and rigs, seeing a peek of aerial scarves through a gap in the curtains…it all sparkled. We watch from the balcony as the staff get in a few catches, shooting themselves into the air like bullets and then catching each other at the last second.
And then there’s the intimidation.
Everything seems like a mountain the first time: Finding the right tightness to cinch my safety harness. Trying to memorize the cues and movements the instructor taught, willing them to go deep into my muscle memory. Ignoring the feelings of inadequacy that emerge any time I try to do something athletic. Blocking out the montage of all the times I was the slowest or weakest or the last chosen in gym class.
And soon enough, practice is over. My hands clench on the taped ladder rungs, feeling them wiggle underneath me. Don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down.
Once I run out of ladder I mumble the instructions to myself as I inch onto the platform. Just like we practiced on the ground, I remind myself…one hand on the ladder, one hand reaching for the bar as they pull it closer. My mouth is dry.
The bar is heavier than it looks. And then they tell me to let go of the ladder, to reach out my other hand. They tell me to lean into the void, hips first, and there’s a brief flutter of panic as the weight of the bar pulls me forward. All that’s between me and open space is the instructor hanging onto the back of my belt. I want to turn my head for reassurance that she’s there, but what’s next will need all of my attention.
The words that come next are the same as they were 20 feet below, but they have a whole new weight up in the air.
Ready! I bend my knees.
What seems like the longest of long pauses. Space as I stare into space.
Hep! There’s no time for overthinking or hesitation. I jump off the platform and into motion, and the world focuses and blurs at the same time. There’s air, rushing past my ears, falling, falling, and then, the ropes of the net pressing gently into my back. All of a sudden, sound rushes back into my ears and I hear the claps and cheers of my instructors and classmates (and my mom, of course). It was my first flight. And I already can’t wait to try again.
It’s scarier climbing the ladder the second time, knowing what to expect. Hoping that my near-perfect try wasn’t just beginner’s luck. And it was harder to climb the ladder the third time after my second attempt is far worse than my first. No attempt is perfect, but soon enough I’m doing a flying backflip; I’m doing a flying catch!
That split second after my hands leave the bar and before they find the forearms of my catcher…that second stretches for miles. I’m suspended, my heart is caught in my throat, and the spectators’ are holding their breath. One person may be flying but everyone is suspended for that moment. It strikes me that this is exactly what I saw when I walked in two hours ago, and now I’m the one shooting through the air. Never did I think that was something I’d be capable of so quickly. And yet…
Afterwards, I take home souvenirs of chalky palms and ragingly sore muscles and bruises on the backs of my knees. All worth it. So incredibly worth it.
Because I love my body, and this new thing it showed me it could do. I was supported and encouraged by the staff, and held by their safety lines, but I made the choice to jump, I worked to pull my body over the bar, and in the end, I made the choice to let go. As I bounced in the net, shaking from adrenaline, I loved myself. I was proud of myself.
I learned to fly.
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