I feel as if I’m at the edge of a cliff looking down, being held by a thread, there is a tempest and the sea is agitated and angry below. There is a chance I can fly, but can I?

The sensation is cliché-as, the fear of a possibility, the butterflies, the delicious anxious sensation that wants something to happen now. Something to happen soon. While the other part of me wants time to slow down, I want to enjoy the falling, the flying.

Not-knowing is as important as would having certainty be.

I admire your courage…