Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Yesterday my team went out to the Ashfield Lake for a goodbye group for the grads. This is a group of students that have been with me my entire time at Swift River. They swam, we ate food from the Ashfield Lakehouse, we played Frisbee. Then, last night, I woke up with a terrifying image in my head -- it was from the frisbee game: a long floating pass into the endzone, the boys gather around looking into the bright white sky. The frisbee hangs in the sky vibrating and growing larger. I squint and feel the shuffle of bodies around me. We are caught for a moment staring at the growing disc, darkening the sky, blotting out the sun, the sky the trees. I freeze, unsure of what to do, I know I need to jump, but the shuffle around me, the pain in my eyes and the growing disc threaten immenent doom.
I didn't catch the firsbee, in fact, I got knocked in the head by somebody's elbow, but that moment is haunting me, worrying me. To leap would be an act of desperation, as if the frisbee is a black hole and to leap, to bend my knees and leap, I might throw myself into the abyss. Fear of loosing myself, and at once the desire, nagging, burning desire to loose myself into that leap, to reach for the sky, for the black hole, to reach,to stretch towards the thing, the shimmering, shaking thing, growing darker, bigger, vibrating, swallowing the sky. I know, and yet, I cannot act. I can only pray that with practice I may learn to leap up into the dark disc.