The Rope Swing and Letting Go

There’s a memory that’s been popping up a lot lately. I think I finally figured out why. 

When I was little, my grandparents had a bomb shelter on a tiny lake. The shelter was built in the 60s, and by the time we were using it, it was in the 80s, and the whole thing was overgrown and falling apart. Inside the concrete structure built into a hill, there were old tomatoes in glass jars stacked on a corner shelf. And that was all that was left in preparation to survive a nuclear blast. The roof had overgrown and over the years, trees sprouted and then grew tall on top of the shelter.

There was also a rope swing. 

This rope swing (in my mind) was a grand and glorious thing. It hung from a giant tree and there was a handle made from a tree branch that hung from the rope’s end. You could grab ahold of this, climb the hill, run down the hill while holding on, and you would swing way out over the lake and then drop into the water. I watched my brother and cousins (even my uncles) do this and I was in awe. It seemed so dangerous, and also wildly fun.

It took forever to work up the courage, but I remember grabbing that handle, walking to the top of the hill, running, and then hanging on. And hanging on. And hanging on. I swung out over the lake and realized that there was a dead tree in the water that marked the drop off. It had sharp branches and broken limbs. You could see the tree in perfect clarity, but only when you were swinging over it. It wasn’t visible from the hill. You could see the clear water before the drop off and the water dark and sparkling after it.

I wanted to land in the dark and sparkling water, but I was terrified if I let go too soon, if I didn’t have enough power in my run and I didn’t swing out far enough, instead of dropping into that shimmering water, I’d land straight on that broken tree, its limbs surely piercing me like a row of swords. And that fear kept me from ever letting go. And the fear kept me from knowing what swimming in the middle of the lake would be like. 

***

There’s been a lot of leaping in my life. Ten years ago, I leapt from a secure job in teaching, to the scary unknown of a freelance narrator. Recently, I leapt from a marriage, to the other side as a single woman. Right now, I’m leaping from giving time to production work (with a paycheck) to giving time to writing (which may or may not have a paycheck). And I’m also leaping from being in a relationship where my needs weren’t met, to hopefully, something in the future that will be wild and wonderful, and at the same time safe and satisfying. It will be a relationship that shimmers. 

It isn’t the leaping I have a problem with.

It’s the letting go of the rope swing. It’s the fucking FEAR.

To leap into that water from the rope swing, to make it beyond the drop off and the danger of the tree, I had to first let go of the handle, of everything that kept me safe and grounded. 

It’s the letting go I’m terrified of, because how do you know when the right time to let go is? How do you say goodbye to the things you know, the things that are comfortable, and how can you trust when there is no guarantee of what is waiting for you? How do you time it just right so that you land safely after the drop off, and not in the shallow water where you might get hurt?

It takes faith. Courage. And I think, a fair amount of preparation. And then when you’ve done all of that, there’s a moment where you just have to say, “Okay. Fuck it.” Maybe you’re ready. Maybe you’re just sick of waiting. 

And you let go…and the letting go becomes the leap.

You have to make sure you’re strong enough to hold on long enough while your body is in the air, you have to make sure that the ground beneath you is solid so that when you run, you’ll be fast enough, and then you have to trust that you timed things perfectly, and let go of your grasp of everything solid and firm. You have to go from someone rooted, to someone flying. 

***

I’ve watched my family make that jump a hundred times, in many ways.

I’m only learning now how to do it. Line everything up. Be prepared. Be smart about it. And then, when you’re ready, release. Release everything that held you to earth, everything that held you in the location that you’ve grown to know so well that there is a groove to the path of your footsteps. Let go of that groove. Let go of the known, the memories, the pain and regret, and then run, leap, and FLY. 

I’m not particularly good or graceful at this, and the letting go is so hard. It’s heartbreaking sometimes to know and acknowledge that the place you’re in…is no longer the place you’re meant to be.

But every day, I let go of the old a little more as I fly a little further out and beyond that tree and the drop-off.

Every day, I’m learning a bit more how to fly, and how to land safely, in a new world. 

I think this is why I keep thinking of this memory. It’s to encourage me to keep trying. Keep going. Keep letting go. Keep flying.  

The memory is to remind me that I might not have been able to do this as a kid (or even six months ago), but I can do this now. I can get there. I just have to let go of the fear first, to say fuck it, I’ve done enough to get ready for this, and trust that I’m strong enough to make it over that dangerous tree. And then, finally, I can reach whatever wonderful thing is waiting for me out in that deep and sparkling water.

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Fingers crossed, the thing waiting for me is not a sea monster, because that shit is NOT funny. 

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ABOUT TANYA EBY

Tanya is a narrator, writer and Comfy Mentor. She loves writing tiny poems, blogging, cooking, and day trips. Her dream is to have a cottage on a lake someday with a rope swing. She doesn’t really want the creepy tree at the bottom of the lake.