Tight-Rope Walkers

On clear days when the weather is nice in the spring and fall, there will occasionally be groups of four or five people various places on campus, gathered around cords that have been strung between two trees. Some locate themselves in the Quad, others in other areas in which there is a reachable distance between any two trees. The cord, I assume, is some kind of durable, elastic material that can withstand pressure and stress (I don't know what it is, but it looks sturdy).

The cord is strung only a few feet above the ground. They take turns stepping up onto the line and balancing; there is a little bit of a pause as they (presumably) test the rope, wiggling it back and forth with their bare feet, and then they step up. They hover for a moment, trying to keep their balance, and then either step down to solid ground or try to step forward.

Though on the rope they are only a foot or two off the ground, I get nervous thinking about if I were to ever try to walk the rope. I can only make it to the second step of a ladder, and can't peek too far over railings to look at the ground below. Thoughts about all the bad things that could happen--spraining something if I fall off, humiliation, [insert disaster here]--fill up the left-over brain space in my head. I don't think I'd have the physical ability to propel myself up to balance on the single line of cord, let alone stay up there. It would take a huge amount of courage and self-trust to be able to stay up there.

In junior high P.E., we spent an entire class period doing trust falls and related activities. I remember this day very vividly, because it was one of the worst days I ever had in P.E.. I remember crying and crying and crying because I had no desire to fall backward into the unknown (it didn't help that they had us climb up a few of the steps of the folded-up bleachers to fall from a higher point). Why couldn't I just metaphorically trust others without having to risk injury to prove it?

To this day, I still don't quite understand what the lesson was that day. I mean, I understand much more than I did then: trust should be something you have in any situation. But did they mean in others? Or did they mean in oneself? What was it they were trying to instill in me, the one who cried herself dry because she was afraid of heights and unwilling to believe that her group members would catch her? What was I supposed to put my trust in?

Today, when I saw a group of the tight-rope walkers, I thought about that day. Trust comes in many forms. Though I'm still unsure of many things, I know I understand that fact. In this case, one must trust that this single line is enough to withstand your weight, your body, and your expectations--even for the briefest of moments.

If I were a bolder person, I would try it. And, perhaps, one day I will. I think about it whenever I see them at it, though. What would it feel like, suspended on air, with seemingly nothing below your feet but space and a moment? That line would not break. Then, what?