Sometimes, when the sun is just barely painting the sky and the cars have slowed, I slip outside. Barefooted I stare into the sky and wonder where all of the stars have gone. It seems like just yesterday I was sprawled out under them with Aaron. Sitting in the wilderness is the perfect place to spill your secrets. Bear traps, head lamps and bleeding heels aside, the art of being was all one needed.

It is there that broken hearts start being pieced back together. In the woods there is only silence. Silence and riddles and laughter. Of course, there are tears. There are always tears. It is the fear that gets to me though. The loneliness, the fear of getting lost, the fear of falling. All of the above happened though, and once they did, I can no longer fear the fall. Indeed, it is not the fall but rather the landing.

Falling is peaceful. A gentle floating until you smack the ground with a bang. Bones break, bodies lurch. I fear death. A fall from that height will no doubt shatter me. And with brittle bones, there is no doubt the fall will kill.

But, when that final moment comes and I shove myself over the edge, it is not the death that it waiting. It is a strange feeling. Floating in mid-air, screaming my heart out, Indiana Jones playing in my head as Tori whistles. Then, there is the simple realization. All around me is air. And with that I remember to let go as I have been instructed. To look down and note the feeling of flying.

It does not matter that I haven’t showered in over eight days. That if I removed my hair from its ponytail it wouldn’t move. That with my bloody heels and slow pace I have learned to carry not only myself but others. That I have gotten lost alone in the woods and somehow made it out alive. That snow in July and screaming my lungs out and losing my breath all in one day can happen.

Rather, it is in that moment that one is forced to let go. Don’t focus on anything but that feeling. The universe is a vast place, and I do not matter in long run. That everything that has happened in the past hurts, but above it all a picture emerges of just being simply happy. Because life is too short to let forgotten birthdays, harsh words and threats ruin the idea of being beautiful.

With those thoughts collected it is easier to slip inside. There the daily bustle interrupts the quietness. The way that cooking could be done in silence and scars were admired. The way that Aaron held my hand through the last snowy hills, telling me riddles to stop me from letting the blood seep out my eyes and feet.

That is the simple beauty. And if that can be captured and kept then the world can remain at peace.

Just look for yourself to be flying.