This plane I pilot is entering a steep dive. Up to now, it’s been possible to suspend disbelief about the degree to which I have been off course. It’s not that it’s been smooth air this whole time, nor have I been unaware of the turbulence. But looking back over the past three years, I am realizing the bumps and jolts I thought were exciting were creating red warnings on the radar. Maybe I took off without having a clear view of the horizon. Sometimes the sky looks like the ocean. Sometimes down looks like up.
Now, however, inertial forces have built to a level that can’t be ignored. I feel how close I am to crashing.
(I know my metaphor is about to lose its efficacy, and I will get to the crux eventually, if I can identify it myself. But maybe if I just write here for awhile, however long it takes, I will be able to pull back on the yoke enough to prevent making a huge mistake. The biggest and best mistake of my life.)
Having crashed and burned in the name of love before, I am aware that I need to make some quick decisions to prevent the moment that comes next—the moment the nose slams into the ground and the whole plane goes up in flames. It’s not that I can’t rise like a phoenix from the ashes. If I’m being honest, sometimes I want to crash just to have that opportunity. The difference this time is that I have passengers. Crashing is not an option
So, this is Day 1: I am determined to pull up before I get any closer to the ground. If the first step is to strap in and reassess what’s happening in the cockpit, then that’s what I’m attempting to do in this blog. Wish me luck, while you still like me.
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