You Have to Let Go

A lot of memories came to mind while writing A Rose for Sergei.  There was always a sense of adventure when Sergei Kourdakov and I were together.  It is one of the qualities that drew us to one another.  Some people are born with a sense of adventure and some people acquire it over time.  I was born with it.

 

When I was a young girl I was somewhat of a dare devil; meaning I showed a carefree disregard for risk.  My earliest memory of trying a dare devil stunt was around the age of five.  I wanted to see if I could fly.  I decided that a leap off our shed in the backyard with an umbrella might do the trick.  In my 5-year-old mind I thought the umbrella would break my fall.  After all, it did look like a parachute of sorts.  My Dad was an Air Force pilot so I knew about jets and flying and parachutes at an early age.  I knew a parachute glided you to safety.  So one day I took a flying leap off the shed in our backyard, hit the ground really hard, and rolled with the fall.  My stunt had an abrupt ending; the umbrella was useless.  It was a good lesson.

 

A few years later my family moved to the beautiful upper peninsula of Michigan.  That was where my older brother discovered the thrill of swinging in the birch trees and riding them slowly to the ground.  Of course I wanted to join him in his latest adventure.  I watched one day as he climbed to the top of one sturdy, large tree, at least 30 feet off the ground.  Once he was at the top he jumped over to a smaller tree and rode it gracefully to the ground.  When he reached the ground, he let go and the tree snapped violently upright again, ready for another round of fun.  I knew I could do it, I always loved climbing trees and heights didn’t bother me.  I knew I could keep up with my older brother.

 

Keith watched as I made my fearless climb up the tree.  As I reached the top he gave me instructions to hang on tightly when I jumped to the smaller tree.  There was one thing he failed to consider though.  He was 13 years old, a young man already, and his height and weight were very different from the tiny frame of a 9-year old girl.  I safely made the jump to the close-by birch tree and held on with both hands as it slowly dipped and bent several feet away from the mother tree.  Then it stopped.  I dangled precariously, stuck in mid air, about 20 feet off the ground.  Too high to let go and fall such a great distance, too far away from the mother tree to return to its safety.  I was in serious trouble and I wasn’t about to let go.

 

I clung to the tree as my brother quickly climbed the larger tree, encouraging me to keep hanging on.  “Don’t let go,” he kept saying.  When he reached the top I was too far away for him to pull me back to the mother tree.  I listened carefully to his plan as I stared into his all-knowing eyes.  I had complete faith that he would save me.  He told me he was going to jump onto the smaller tree with me; together we would ride the tree to the ground.  He knew we would fall fast with the added weight.  “As soon as we hit the bottom, you have to let go quickly,” he warned.  “If you don’t let go then you’ll be carried back up to the top and the force of the snap will send you flying.  Are you ready?” he said.  “Make sure you let go when we hit the ground!”

 

He leaped onto the tree with me and we fell fast and furious to the ground in a rush of air as the sharp sound of snapping branches and leaves crashed around us.  I remembered to let go.

 

It was a good analogy for life.  Sometimes you have to let go to save yourself.