Leap of Faith - learning how to trapeze - Brief Article

Vegetarian Times, March, 1999 by Cristin Marandino

Learning to fly on a lot more than a wing and a prayer

Depending on you talk to, I'm either a risk taker or a nut (my mother, of course, thinks the latter). I've bungee-jumped off a 150foot bridge in New Zealand, white-water rafted down Utah's Green River, scaled indoor and outdoor rock faces, hiked a glacier, jumped out of a plane at 14,000 feet and dived the Great Barrier Reef. So when I had the chance to take a week-long trapeze course, I was off before you could say the Flying Zamboni Brothers. Who knew it would alter my concept of time and space and life itself?

Within hours of my arrival at the workshop, I was ascending a 40-foot ladder that led to the platform, off of which I would shortly be hurling myself. This quick introduction to the philosophy and artistry of flight had my legs wobbling beneath me. But waiting on the platform was Dave, an instructor whose calm demeanor could coax a turtle out of its shell. "Just look up at me and keep climbing," he encouraged. "You'll be fine."

He was right. The world was different up there. Though just 40 feet up, I felt miles away. Standing in the stillness above the treetops, the only thing that really mattered was that I was about to fly. With Dave firmly holding the back of my safety harness, I lunged forward to grab ahold of the heavy fly bar. I expected to be overwhelmed by fear, but surprisingly I felt completely secure. Perhaps it was knowing Dave wouldn't let go until I was ready, or maybe it was his reassuring words that made me ready. Either way, I had become a child, comfortable placing all my trust in somebody else's hands. My feet hadn't left the platform but already I was flying.

One quick jump and I was airborne. My stomach dropped, the wind rushed past me, and exhilaration set in. Peacefully I swung forward, then backward, forward, then back. A back flip landed me safely in the net. It wouldn't be long, however, until that contraption of bars, ropes and nets would turn against me.

The next morning, we were learning tricks straight out of a Ringling Bros. handbook: knee hangs, splits, birds' nests. All involved similar actions: The "flyer" is called off the platform by the "catcher." Swinging through the air, the flyer waits for the correct moment, then moves into position (hooking her legs over the bar and dropping her arms). The catcher signals the flyer to "release," and into his hands she flies. Sounds simple enough. But getting into position a few seconds late means the flyer and the catcher will never meet.

In flight, time is a rhythm, not a measurement. This rhythm, I was told, would allow me to feel the swing's peak--the highest point where all boundaries quietly cease to exist. In this place devoid of sound and gravity, my body would freeze in midair, and at that precise instant, one graceful motion would put me into position. Ha! Without fail, every time I jumped off the platform, I'd fight like hell to get my legs over the bar before the peak. I was racing time, not riding it. After a day of disappointments, tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. "I hate this place," I thought. "I hate this sport, I hate these people."

Then it clicked. I had turned trapeze into a competitive sport. I was so consumed with the success of a trick that I was sabotaging its outcome. While physical gravity appeared to be my nemesis, the real enemy was the emotional gravity of my own thoughts. As soon as I came down off the trapeze, feelings of inadequacy and insecurity would rush forth. And by bringing them into the air, the peaceful solitude of flight was eluding me.

One of the workshop's leaders, author/philosopher/trapeze enthusiast Sam Keen, noticed my problem. He told me to close my eyes and imagine my movements in slow motion. It sounds cliche, yet somehow the simple act of seeing myself fly in my mind's eye helped me to slow down my breathing and my thoughts. I was free to feel the rhythm. It then came time to make that image a reality.

On the platform, I see Sam on the catcher's bar. I sweep through the air, waiting ... waiting ... waiting. I feel it--my body is literally suspended horizontally in midair. Gently I slip my legs over the bar. With my heart racing, my mind focuses only on my body and its movement. My hands release. Completely unencumbered by gravity or noise, I sail toward Sam, all the while staring into his eyes, which urge me to be patient. I hear the release command, and with arms extended, I fly toward him. Time freezes and I experience the freedom of flight. Suddenly, I'm caught. Together we swing through the air. The tears that well up this time are from a profound sense of faith and confidence.

By quieting my mind, I had slowed the pace of time and allowed myself to listen to my body and trust my ability. And the serenity that brings has proved to be just as exhilarating with my feet firmly on the ground. I have learned to fly.