The Jungle Gym

This meme on social media this morning brought elementary school rushing back to me in one flat moment.  I was the playground chicken.  The girl who always wore dresses and skirts and refused to play kick ball.  I was the kid with the book under a tree or sitting on a barely rocking swing while others pumped legs with skill and fervor and flew high into the sky.  I imagined my toes touching the breathy branches of a tree like my friends... but, only imagined.

We had two jungle gyms.  One, much like the photo in this post.  The other was a ladder with a fireman-like pole to slide down once you reached the top.  My friends would flit to to the top and slide down over and over and over again.  I would watch.  I didn't even WANT to do it.  I did, however, believe I HAD to do it.  

It is a fuzzy blur now.  Did someone dare me?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Did I get a hankering to try to climb up there?  I find that impossible to believe.  For whatever reason, one spring day, not far from summer vacation, I decided to Climb To The Top.  Climb I did.  I got to the top.  I gingerly made my way to the pole and... froze.

This girl was not going to take that step and slide down that pole.  Nope.  Not happening.  Soon, a small group surrounded the pole.  Kids I barely knew were calling for me to come down.  They became one blur and one foggy sound as I clung to the steel pole and my teeth shivered.

Someone got the recess aide.  "Come down", she prodded sweetly.  I shook my head, "no".  "Come down", she insisted with less sweetness.  No.  No. Never.

After what seemed an eternity, out came the school janitor with an extension ladder.  This man's name is lost to me, but his demeanor remains in my heart to this day.  He was a wonderful man who loved children.  He was so good to me, even as I clung to the pole and shook my head adamantly at his soft command to reach for him. I was not taking that step.  I began to think of my life consisting of this.  This playground.  This jungle gym.  What would happen when I had to pee?  I was getting hungry.  Would I miss lunch?  Still, I grasped the silver steel with a 7 -year old's death grip and refused to budge.  I remember that the Principal, Mr. Marcott, ended up outside.  I know he stood below me and spoke to me.

I do not remember getting down.  I do not know who talked me down or when I took that big step.  I wish I did.   I wish I could clearly recall the importance of that moment.  I do not remember the victory of achievement.  I only remember the fear of letting go.  The belief I would fall.  The deep seeded gut wrenching belief that No One Would Ever Catch Me.

I returned to that playground one summer of my collegiate life.  The jungle gym looked so small and dauntless.  I placed my hands on the top rung with my feet safely on the ground.  I thought about climbing up and jumping and sliding down the pole to safety, but decided against it.  After all, I was alone.  Who would catch me if I fell?

In many ways, I am still that seven year old girl.  The one who prefers her feet on the ground and her nose in a book.  The one who wishes for small adventures and safe landings.  The one who declines jumping into things because she fears that no one will catch her if she falls.  I still wonder, Who Will Catch Me If I Fall?