It was bright and warm out, even though it was still early Spring, and we had been spontaneously wandering through the city, aimless and happy. Dubrovnik is a gorgeous place with tons of winding alleys and hidden nooks. One minute you can be climbing steps and dodging laundry in a tiny residential place which might open into an incredibly beautiful vista of the sea, sunlight glimmering off of breaking waves and glittering cliffs. We were in this exact situation - small residential area to eye-popping vista - when we stumbled into a cliff-side bar.
It was an odd establishment. To visit one had to carefully climb down steps onto the side of the cliff where a few ledges connect to make what the proprietors market as a bar. The bar itself was small and tiki, like one you might find in a college kid's backyard. One ledge down, was another that held a few chairs, divided by small coffee tables. Around these stood strategically placed umbrellas, their shade attempting to make-up for their crowding inconvenience. Also, for safety, were horizontal bars that served as a safety barrier, the only protection from a person loosing her balance, for example, and plunging head-first into the sea.
We settled into seats in a natural nook and with lagers in hand, marvelled at the incredibly stunning natural beauty. I breathed deeply and felt grateful that I was lucky enough to enjoy that exact moment in that place. It wouldn't be totally accurate if I didn't also say that I felt a cautious exhilaration. We were so high up, and the ridges were so narrow, and we were drinking, but we were also brave and free and fate had brought us to this place.
A little while later, three people - two men and a woman - climbed down the ridge onto rocks jutting out over the sea. "How weird!" I thought, as I put my feet up on one of the sturdy, horizontal bars. As they peeled off layers of their clothing, it dawned on me what they were about to do, and my heart leaped into my throat. Were they seriously going to dive into the sea? From that high up?
Yes, is the short answer. They were.
The men went first. It seemed easy for them, as they confidently stood on the edge of the rock and elegantly dove in. The woman was unsure. I gathered that it was her first time, and I wondered if this was a first date or a dare - something that began with a sly, "Have you ever wanted to" and ended with a defiant but flirty, "I would totally be into that." I also wondered why she would choose to do this particular activity in a white string bikini in front of a, albeit small, crowd. I knew nothing about this woman, but body language is universal. She was afraid, and vacillated between looking over the edge, hands on hips, and backing away, laughing, shaking her head and flipping her hair. She was being encouraged(?) coerced(?) by one of the men who was also laughing and filming her with a cell phone.
I am not sure how much time passed but it seemed like a long, long time of this sort of "I will"/"I won't" divertissement.
Finally we watched the woman steel her resolve and jump into the sea. As her head popped out of the water, everyone at the bar cheered. She waved and climbed back onto the rock. I was amazed. "How is it that people choose to do that?" I thought. "How are they brave enough? In front of a crowd! And what if something had gone wrong?" And just like that I felt an overwhelming combination of jealousy mixed with anxiety and crushing despair. I let the emotion pass and told myself I was tired. After all, we had been out in the sun all day and drinking. Our party gathered our belongings and climbed back up the cliff into the grey alleyway that led us there.
It wasn't until after I returned home that I managed to think through my sudden mood change. Why was I jealous? Was it because I knew I would never be young again? That I didn't have the beautiful body, fit and perfect, in a white bikini? Society does say I'm past my prime, with it's constant reminders that saturate the media. Maybe I've become overly sensible and would never take on a challenge of this sort, something I am currently way too cautious and maternal to do. Or perhaps I was jealous of the cliff diving itself; jumping off of a tall rock into the glimmering sea is a a behaviour that requires abolishing fear while embracing confidence. Did I ever have that in me? Have I always been this cautious?
The thing is, I'm forty. And all of the "dares" I challenged myself with in my twenties and thirties - moving abroad, bearing a son, travelling, actually calling myself a writer.. hell, even keeping fit - have denigrated into this: me - an unfit, Netflix binging couch potato who drinks too much, is unsatisfied with her job, and is completely terrified to walk out the front door because she feels unfit to be seen, much less heard or valued. It's a bad place to be, caught in this negative anxiety spiral, and I've been reeling here too long.
I'm trying to patch things back together, to resuscitate my life, I suppose. I am forcing myself to go outside more, and maybe even speak to my neighbours. I am trying to look in the mirror and not think hateful thoughts while ironically accusing myself of being vain for looking. I'm brainstorming volunteer options and am going to join a local health club. I even changed jobs, moving from 17 years of teaching high school English to leading a Theory of Knowledge team of teachers and writing a new curriculum for Global Studies. I'm trying to remember to breathe and to think good thoughts about being in this place, right now. I am trying to find my voice again - here.
So, it's not exactly cliff diving, and I am still looking over the edge, hands on hips, and shyly backing away, but maybe it's a step forward.
Maybe it's is a little bit brave.
Our campus is beautiful. There's no doubt about it. England in Spring is beautiful and the sun was shining today which is why there was such an intense, apparent division between the glory of the day and my irritated mood. To describe me as grumpy or sulky would've been kind compared to the intense loathing of the universe clearly obvious to those sitting with me in the car. I didn't feel well and was impatient; I hadn't slept well, and the very second we drove onto campus, the word "fuck" slithered out of my mouth - and not in the way one might say it, like a quick flick of a rubber band around one's wrist. It was more like a sigh "fuck" and was immediately pointed out as condemnation of my motherly persona, my son's accusation as sharp as the little finger he used against me.
I reluctantly made my way to my office where I checked the morning emails, sighed another "fuck" and decided I would try to find solace in nature. I put on my walking shoes and made my way down a new path, one that was created by an Eagle Scout and therefore one that had been cleared for walking, big yellow warning signs planted among the foliage warning any unsuspecting ambler that water exists sometimes and can be deep or dangerous. I imagined myself falling into water and floating down stream to anywhere but here, but then the practical side of me kicked in and I saw the reality of dragging myself out of the river, making my way to the sports centre on campus, and standing under a hand dryer. I didn't have that kind of time.
At the end of the path was a small opening. Spring bluebells bloomed so big it looked like the ocean. Sunlight that speckled through the trees en route now beamed on the open clearing next to the water. I found a tree stump and sat. I soaked in as much as I could, eyes shut, and let myself breathe. I allowed myself to listen to the water, the occasional breeze through the trees, a bunny hopping in brush, the birds singing. I opened my eyes and looked at the scenery, broadly at first, and the more narrowly. Butterflies flittered around me, as did small dragon flies and floating pollen. Ants carried on with their work, moving up and down, single file, on the branch closest to me. And I breathed. And then cried - not because I was so angry at the world, though that probably did have something to do with it - but because I realized in sitting there, I hadn't actually scene the world in this minute detail in months. I cried because of how stupid that is and how unfair. I cried because I don't allow myself to sit and be and all I wanted to do was to sit there and be for as long as I could. I set an alarm to remind myself about when to return to the reality of today. The walk softened me a bit. A colleague even said I looked like I was treading more lightly than usual.