Jump

I hate diving boards. I hate them. Why would anyone actually WANT to jump off of one? To willingly get that pit in your stomach as you look over the edge of a man-made cliff? To plunge into that cold, deep water, disoriented and unable to breathe? No thank you.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I took swimming lessons as a child. Now, I can’t prove this, nor would I try, but I’m pretty sure that I was forced off of a diving board during these lessons. As in pushed off the high dive. Would someone really do such a thing? In any case, I have hated diving boards as long as I can remember. They fill me with dread. I have very few fears I still cling to, but this, my friends, this is one of them.

Not long ago, I found myself staring up at not one, but three diving platforms. I’ve never seen anything like them in Uganda, but there they were, looming over the pool on my day off from training the new volunteers. Not surprisingly, they filled me with terror and loathing, but there was something different there that was surprising. I wanted to jump off of them. Okay…wait. “Want” is not the right word. No part of me “wanted” anything to do with jumping off a high, concrete platform. But I didn’t like that I was afraid of them. I decided I didn’t want to be scared anymore and that forcing myself to jump was the best way to face that fear.

And so, I jumped. It wasn’t quick, nor was it graceful. It took me at least a solid 5 minutes to jump once I finally convinced myself to do so. I emitted a scream as I made my way awkwardly into the water, holding my nose. I shook with fear before I jumped. I shook with fear after I jumped. But I jumped. And then, I forced myself out of the water, and I jumped again. And again. And again.

I wish I could say that the fear went away, but it didn’t. It was there Every. Single. Time. But the fear did not stop me. It moved to the side. It watched me jump.

I’ve been standing on a diving board of a different sort for the last few weeks. You see, I was offered a job. The Lead Literacy Specialist for Peace Corps Uganda. It’s an amazing opportunity to design trainings and help Peace Corps volunteers be better teachers. It’s the kind of work I see myself doing long term. It’s the kind of work I love. But still, as I look over the edge of this cliff, I see myself moving two hours away from my Peace Corps family (my Linda), and away from my Ugandan family (my Rose), and away from everything I know in this country (my apple man, my egg man, my waitress, my tailor, my taxi drivers), and I’m scared to jump. I’m really happy here, in little Wanyange. I’ve made peace with my squeaky bats and dusty floors. I’ve fallen in love with my students, with my fellow teachers, with the rice paddies and the maize gardens in back of my house. And I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to jump.

All change feels like this, at least to me. Like standing on the high dive and looking down and having your stomach lurch with fear at what’s in the water and how deep is the water and how hard will you hit going down.

I’ve been lucky so far. Unlike when I was a kid taking swimming lessons, I haven’t been forced to jump. I think everyone is forced to jump at one time or another. You get a catastrophic illness. Someone close to you suddenly dies. And there you are, on the diving board with a sword to your back being forced to walk the plank. Sometimes, you don’t get to choose whether or not you jump and your life changes. Sometimes the choice is made for you.

But this time, this day, I get to choose. I get to choose if I stay where I am, where it is comfortable, or if I jump. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that I will make a decision like this. In the past, it’s taken me years just to approach the ladder and begin climbing. I’ve even changed my mind mid-jump before and clung to the platform, my legs dangling off the edge, until my fatigued fingers gave out and I fell painfully into change. But all of this practice is helping. Yes, the fear is still there Every. Single. Time. But tonight, on my last night in my blissful little house before I move, I’m jumping anyway. The fear is there, but it doesn’t stop me anymore. It moves aside. It watches me jump.