I am not the kind of person who thinks it’s a good idea to leap off a mountain.
So why am I about to?
I mean, what am I doing? I’m not a thrill seeker. In fact, I am sadly and often irritatingly deemed un-thrill-able. Not that my thrill tentacles have been stimulated by all the wonders the world has to offer as I am far less well travelled than I would like.
But, I am not a natural gasper. I rarely gape open-mouthed at anything. Had I ventured into the Louvre when in Paris and gazed at the Mona Lisa with my dreadfully untrained eye, I would probably have remarked on how lacking she was in the bonny department. Admittedly, Rome’s Coliseum provoked a bit of an ‘oo’, but I am generally more inclined to be underwhelmed than wowed. Even as a kid at the fair you’d be more likely to find me hooking a duck than whizzing on a waltzer.
Yet, here I am, harnessed and helmeted, myself looking anything but bonny, about to place my life in the hands of my allotted pilot, with nothing but the skill I seriously hope he possesses and a carabiner or two to prevent me from plunging to my very messy death.
Why? Why am I about to leap off Mount Teide to paraglide in the skies over Tenerife?
Partly to blame is my brother Jez, who had been thrilled to bits when he performed this ridiculous feat the previous day. Then my insane sister-in-law Tracey and her ‘let’s do it’ attitude must carry some of the responsibility.
But mostly, it’s the Pinot.
Much, too much of it.
Consequently, having devoured my bottles of courage, there can be no bottling out.
Tracey, chattering away as usual, leaps off the mountain like she does it every day.
After two failed attempts, the fella I’m strapped to, Ramon, I believe is his name, says,
‘Run to the edge and keep running when we leave the ground,’
Now try and remove from my mind the image of a cartoon character’s little legs running like mad, suspended in mid air for a split second, the cliff behind him, nothing below him. I hear his horrific scream as he falls, spinning faster and faster, becoming smaller and smaller until he’s no more than a tiny dot and then … splat!
Great. Just great.
So I run. And keep running. Just like that little cartoon. And …
I’m not falling!
Quite the opposite, in fact.
The wind catches us and sweeps us alarmingly and swiftly upwards and I pray to the God in whom I do not believe that my pilot has neither murderous nor suicidal intentions.
Of course he hasn’t.
He does however, order me to smile at the selfie stick which photographs and records this flight, the idea being to capture my squeals of delight and the expression of joy on my face. I’ve seen the video. Is it possible to look terrified and slightly bored at the same time?
I sense his disappointment as he was doubtless expecting cries of ‘Whoop whoop!’ ‘Awesome!’ ‘Wow!’ ‘Fantastic!’
But no.
I gaze at the black, jagged, treacherous, rocky landscape below and fail to utter a single word.
Tenerife, of course, has charm and beauty in abundance, but as an island formed of volcanic rock, it could not be described, from the ground or air, as scenically stunning. Well, some might describe it as such, but un-thrill-able me wouldn’t.
After a few minutes, even Ramon stops making happy noises. Is it meant to be like this, I wonder, as the beach where we are due to land gets further away. We aren’t actually moving forward. The wind, which is incredibly noisy up here, holds us captive. We are buffeted, up and back and down and up again. Suspended, like a bird of prey, hovering.
‘The conditions are not right,’ says Ramon, calm as you like, and proceeds to do all manner of stuff with what I assume are the controls. ‘Get ready to land.’
I see Tracey in the distance, already on the ground. The gritty wasteland upon which we clumsily plonk is hardly the resplendent sweep onto the beach that was supposed to happen, where Jez, camera at the ready, stands poised to seize the drama of the moment.
Ah well, all in all, sadly underwhelming. But, hey, at least we’re alive.
At this point, face that I have, (shame on me, by the way) standing not quite at the foot of the mountain, I realise, sadly, that I have become a miserable old sod.
What is wrong with me?
I have declared I’m not a thrill-seeker. That is, and always was, absolutely true.
But when did I lose my joie de vivre?
I dismiss the question instantly and forget about it.
But it won’t quite go away.
Clearly, this isn’t an instant happening, like a flash where everything is illuminated and suddenly you can see clearly. No, nothing like that.
This is more of a gentle nudge, a nudge that becomes a persistent little prod at my consciousness.
Ever so slowly, a new feeling of disquiet begins to creep into my perfectly comfortable life.
And my perfectly comfortable life, I realise, is part of the problem.
When you don’t have to do anything, it’s terribly easy to do nothing. It’s easy to slip into a routine where your existence is neither challenged by the unexpected nor daunted by the unfamiliar. You feel safe. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. Easy.
Whatever happened to me?
Of course I know the answer.
Nigel happened. MND happened. Nigel died.
Grief cloaks everyone in different ways. I believe my cloak of grief has cocooned me so completely and comfortably that I don’t even know it’s there. Like cashmere, it soothes. I think I started working on my comfort blanket well before Nigel even died. What may have been interpreted as resilience and strength was merely armour to paralyse the pain. A barrier erected not only to keep pain out, but also to lock emotion in. The trouble is, when you imprison sadness, happiness is not allowed anywhere near. It simply does not belong. Sentiment, passion and joy can be dangerous. They can hurt.
As Nigel and his favourite band Pink Floyd would say, I have become, comfortably numb.
But, when your only job of the day is walking the dog; when you spend the rest of your day dusting the surfaces you dusted yesterday; when you can’t think of a single interesting thing to post on your blog; when the highlight of your day is a ginger biscuit with your coffee; when part of you is waiting for something to happen and the other part of you is actively ensuring it does not … and,
And, I can’t believe it …
You have reached level 877 on the Wordscapes App …
It’s time for change!
I have spent too long in the safety of my base camp at the foot of my particular mountain. It’s time for me to leave and explore the slopes.
It’s time for me to remember how to live.
And Nigel, in my heart, will come with me. He will give me the strength to climb the mountains I will surely find.
And, I know he will hold my hand, when I leap off one or two.
