Jump or Burn?

Wednesday, at a dinner event, I had a conversation with my new co-workers about 9-11. Where people were when they heard the news, how they were affected, some of them living in the New York area at the time. The topic came up about whether or not you would jump out of the tower or stay and burn. I know…lovely, light dinner discussions… And one girl answered that she would surely stay and not jump because she is terrified of heights. At the time when she said this, I thought I might too, because I'm also deathly afraid of heights. But then, I’m also claustrophobic and smoke infringing on my oxygen supply would not be a way I’d choose either. At the time the question was posed, I couldn’t decide what I’d do because I’ve never really been in that situation (knocking on wood).


Switching gears for a moment…I have been having these strange dreams lately, one of which was a nightmare that ends with a scene of myself with a group of people sitting on inflatable rafts on an asphalt parking lot awaiting an address from a speaker. I don’t know who the speaker is, but earlier in the dream, the story establishes that I am with this group of people as a journalist, complete with press pass, seeking to document the event. The group is some kind of strange religious cult (and perhaps part writers group…he, he) and I am trying to mingle among them without drawing attention to myself. There is some sort of delay in the schedule and the event's coordinators, two women conversing on the far left side of the staging area, are whispering amongst themselves, trying to figure out how to stall for the speaker who isn’t there yet. Behind them, there is a wooden fence housing a reddish brown horse with small yellow spots who begins violently kicking and bucking. Audience members move away from the fence, but the two women coordinators dismiss the horse’s behavior as nothing to be concerned about and continue their whispering. I start to get nervous. Clearly, something is spooking this horse and it’s having a near supernatural reaction. The horse's face begins to grow and morph into a size severely disproportionate to its body, as far as horse faces go. It starts running back and forth against the length of the fence and kicking. I can tell it’s going to jump, so I pull and prod everyone around me, telling them to get as far away from the fence as possible, stepping over everyone’s colorful rafts laid out in the lot. The horse does jump. People run screaming. The horse runs across the staging area to the opposite side, rears up with its front legs kicking in the air, opens its mouth to reveal teeth far more resembling that of a bear than that of a horse and proceeds to ferociously clamp down on a nearby woman’s forehead and face. Horrified by this, and desperately looking for a way to help save the woman from the grip of the horse’s mouth, I run into a nearby doorway to try and find something, anything that I can beat the horse with. A broom handle, a shovel, anything. I don’t care; I’m on a mission. The doorway leads only to a small bathroom. There is nothing I can immediately grab, not even a towel rack I can rip off the wall. I run back outside screaming for someone to help me find a way to get the horse off of this poor woman. But all of the people present for the event, are now cowering spectators in the back of the lot, quietly watching the event unfold. The woman is still struggling with the horse, who has not released her, and I am the only one seeking a solution. Maybe I should try to grab a piece of the fence?

And then I wake up.

The following morning I was haunted by this vivid picture of the horse’s mouth clamping down on this woman’s face and I wondered where I could possibly come up with something like that: so strange and twisted. I start thinking of horse experiences from my youth, as my family has owned horses since I was sixteen. I could think of a few scary instances with them. I can tell you, when a horse does not feel like being ridden, they don’t want you on them. They can be incredibly obstinate, and sometimes downright mean. They are moody animals. Like many other animals, perfer an established routine. Since I was sixteen (old enough to drive) and active in so many after school activities, I was not part of their normal routine like my mother and sister. During this time, we only had two horses, Candy and Pockets (both named by the seller before we got them and we kept the names). Candy was the more docile one, but Pockets was often a force to be reckoned with. He had attitude and liked things to be done his way or no way.
My most memorable negative experience with a horse was with Pockets. I saddled him up and started riding within the pasture, but he decided he didn’t want me to ride him. Normally, when he felt this way, he might try to tree me (run under low branches…always a fun time), but this time he took off running the length of the fence at incredibly rapid speed, circling at the corner, and violently bucking and kicking. I stayed on, gripping for dear life, and the pattern began again, this time to the other side of the fence, circling and bucking like mad. Now, here’s where I realize that today Pockets is going to hurt me. It’s not a matter of if, as much as when and how. At the rate he is going, I know I risk a broken neck (a la Chris Reeve) and at best a broken leg and or collarbone. I’m still gripping for life. But then I decide that there is one other option. I know that his pattern is to run and buck and that he is running the entire length of the fence about five feet from the fence. Now, the speed is crazy fast, and I also know that there is no doubt that it will be extremely painful, and there is still a chance of a broken neck or limb, but this option seems more appealing to me. I brace myself for the next run and when I feel I am just close enough, I literally dive onto the fence, pulling my legs behind. My arm burns like hell and I spent the next few hours picking wood pieces out of my arm - six millimeter to six inch pieces - and dressing my wounds.

No doubt about it, I was lucky. There was tremendous bruising and bleeding to show for it, but no broken bones, no paralysis. Suffice to say, Pockets and I were not on friendly of terms after this incident. Which brings me back to my present life and the question posed at Wednesday’s dinner…

I’ve decided that I’m a jumper. And lately, I’ve been jumping, metaphorically speaking, and taking a lot abuse for this. I know there will be pain either way, (or in case of the tower scenario: death) but I like to be in control of how and when it is administered. I prefer to be in control of it…something about being able to trust that I’m hurting for all the right reasons: a choice I made.