Turkey and Terror

I’ve just returned from a pleasant Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, all of the delicious fixings, and a virtual free-fall from thousands of feet up, to the cold, hard earth. Ouch!

To be clear: I did not jump out of an airplane. I never have jumped out of an airplane. But, I did contribute stuffing, squash, cranberries, and pumpkin pie to the meal. That’s got to count for something.

I spoke little, as usual. They think that I have nothing to say. Not true. I have plenty to say. But, what I would say, they wouldn’t understand.

When I did speak, I‘m pretty sure that I was misunderstood. When it was my turn to state: “I’m thankful for:……..” I said that I was grateful that we live where we do. They thought that I was making some kind of a flag waving political statement. I intended the opposite. With compassion I recognize that there are many in the world that can not enjoy such a luxury as a Thanksgiving feast. With humility I recognize that we ourselves may not always be so lucky.

Post-turkey they listened to my brother tell stories of his “adrenaline junky” activities with great interest, and with no apparent skepticism.

I entered the conversation briefly to offer some comments regarding the relative danger of rock climbing versus skydiving:

“I listened to an amazing podcast this summer about a woman who was skydiving and her parachute didn’t open. She survived, and so did the instructor on her back!“

I was told that a person could not survive such a fall. I must have it all wrong.

I rudely began searching Google on my phone at the dining table in order to prove that I wasn‘t the imbecile that they thought I was. But, I couldn’t find the particular incident that I was speaking about. Instead, amazingly, I found that there are MANY people that have survived parachute malfunctions.

The conversation moved on to bungee jumping without me. Fine. It was more rewarding for me to contemplate how it can be possible for a person or a nation to survive a fall from great heights, than attempt to prove the validity of my comments to a table full of skeptics.

Survival without a parachute? It seemed reason for optimism. Maybe?

As conversation droned on, I imagined how it might feel: The realization that the parachute that I had always relied on wasn’t going to open.

I was hurtling toward the earth with the wind ripping at my hair, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and my heart pounding in my temples. It must be simultaneously terrifying and peaceful to be falling alone through the beautiful blue sky with fluffy cotton ball clouds toward sun dappled fields below.

I imagine that I overcome the initial desire to poop my pants (I brought extra underwear, just in case) with a bit of a cocky smile. After all, the terror of falling from the sky or from an election gone awry is a sham. The parachute and democracy will always have my back.

They will. Won’t they?

I’ll always land softly in the green field dappled in sunlight.

I will. Won’t I?

I pull the apparent ripcord, and suddenly everything is not as it seemed.

Instead of the familiar, gentle, yet strong bulk of the silky parachute, the box of Oreo cookies and spare underwear that I carefully packed earlier that morning tumbled out of the backpack.

I am momentarily distracted from my impending doom as I desperately attempt to grasp at the familiarity, luxury, and safety of the Oreos.

Damn! They were the new lemon flavored ones too!

Hopefully, in this situation I would wrap all of my half-learned lessons of the Buddha into a few moments.

How better to teach myself about karma than to unnecessarily jump out of an airplane? How better to appreciate my own impermanence than to jump out of that airplane with Oreos and underwear instead of a parachute?

Hopefully in this situation I would still see beauty in the blueness of the sky and the sun dappled field.

Finally, I hope that I would find humor in the situation and laugh.

“Laughter is the best medicine.“ And, it’s probably best to be relaxed at the moment of impact.

Practical advice: Land feet first. It’s the only way to survive (according to the podcast).

Regaining consciousness momentarily: Are those my lemon flavored Oreos that the paramedics are munching on as they wheel me to the ambulance?

I gesture to the closest paramedic. He leans down close so I can speak in his ear, only to be misunderstood once again. “Have you seen my underwear?”, I wheeze before losing consciousness again.

Parachute, backpack, they kind of look the same. Don’t they?

Looks can be deceiving.

Someday maybe this middle-aged father of two will lead the post-turkey conversation with tales of their own adventures: “Did I ever tell you the story of how I became a non-binary asexual Buddhist?”

But, they wouldn’t understand.

Would they?