skydiving.

Our first skydive together, 2008

"You've been skydiving?! Twice?!"

This is usually the reaction I get. I went skydiving for the first time in college, and then again when Kevin and I had been dating for about 5 months. Both times were fabulous - and both times I tried to convince people that it's not scary, and that they should definitely do it. At least once.

But most people don't believe me. In their minds, skydiving means a terrifying leap, a dizzying frenzy of clouds and screaming, and a potentially body-crushing landing. They couldn't be more wrong.

Skydiving has 3 phases: free fall, glide, landing. The free fall is the frenzy - screaming, waving at the camera, whizzing through clouds at a high speed - but it's over in 60 seconds. It's crazy, but it's literally one minute long. The landing, if you lift up your legs, is like going over a speed bump too fast in a car - a little surprising, but over in a flash.

The best part of skydiving - and the part that takes the most time - is the glide. After the free fall, you slow down, release the parachute, and float in the air for 5-7 minutes. I can't emphasize enough how unbelievable the glide is - you are above everything, seeing an expanse of land and sky, feeling the wind around your arms and legs. It's a whole new view - a whole new perspective. You feel as if you're big enough to be on top of the world, while also feeling like the smallest thing in it. It's the part of the jump that nobody talks about, and yet it's more than 5 times as long as either the free fall or the landing. It's peaceful. It's calm. It's good.

Even though I've only jumped out of a plane twice, I feel as if I've been skydiving my whole life. I went to college far from home. Lived in a foreign country for a semester. Moved farther from home for graduate school. Got married. Moved to another new state. Started a business. Bought a house. Moved back and started over again. Got a new job, then another, then another. And last week, we got a dog.

Up until we got the dog, I'd looked back on all these experiences with gratitude, fondness, and joy. The places I'd seen, the adventures we've had, the friends we've made. I remembered the glide, the new perspective, the humility of realizing how tiny I actually am in the world, the confidence of learning what I'm truly capable of. I remembered my daily trip to the market in Florence, the green hills of Tennessee, the shiny new keys of our first home, the excitement of returning to Boston, the pride of being offered my current job. I know there were moments of free fall, moments of chaos, days of anxiety, nights of crying over the unknown, the fear, the inevitable question, "What have I done?" I know there were bumpy landings, unexpected changes in the plan, frustrating setbacks and surprise expenses.

The free falls and the landings are what most people think about when they say, "I could never do that." But the free fall and the landing aren't what I remember first when I think about any of these experiences. I remember the glide.

When we adopted Brady a week ago, we were beyond excited. We were back in the plane, strapped to our skydiving tandem partners, listening to instructions but anxious to just get out there and feel the wind in our faces. And then we jumped.

The free fall was blinding. We were exhausted from keeping the dog and cats separate, overwhelmed at how much planning we had to do, astonished at the cost of everything we needed to buy for the dog. And on Monday, while we were at work, Brady peed all over the couch. And then while I was washing the couch cushions, he lifted up his leg and peed again. We spent the night cleaning up the living room, washing and drying rugs and cushions, slipping through the door that was keeping the cats separate, and trying to figure out why it was 9pm and we still hadn't eaten dinner. We lay in bed that night completely spent. My stomach was in knots and I was on the verge of tears. We agreed we couldn't keep him. It was too much work, too expensive, too difficult with the cats. We'd had the best of intentions, but we'd jumped too soon, tried to do too much, underestimated what we were capable of. The next day we put Brady in his crate while we were at work.

And then the free fall ended.

For the rest of this week, we've been establishing the routine, teaching Brady that while we're at work, he goes in his crate, and then we come home and take care of him, and then he gets to sleep on the couch at night. He's a fast learner, and has been a perfect dog the whole week. And we're learning, too - that we need to be patient and slow down, that it's a good thing to have a schedule, that the world is beautiful and quiet early in the morning, that the best way to start the day and end the day is by going for a walk with your spouse and a happy dog. He's also been giving us lots of love, snuggling up on the couch, rolling over for belly rubs, lying quietly next to us while we eat breakfast together at the table (something we've never done before).

We've begun to glide.

I know why people say, "I couldn't have a dog right now." The free fall was only a few days ago, and I remember it clearly. But it was short - that 60 second rush, that thrilling and overwhelming frenzy. And only a few weeks earlier, we'd agreed we probably couldn't do it. It would be too hard, too much work. The free fall would be too difficult, the landing too painful. We had no idea how good the glide could be. No idea that our perspective on freedom would change so dramatically, that we would enjoy the structure and the need to slow down, that we would savor the early mornings together, that we would find ourselves grateful to say "no" and have fewer plans each week.

I know the landing will be painful - Brady is 7 years old, so we don't have a whole lifetime with him. But even the landing will pale in comparison to the glide. Like the free fall, it's an intense and painful phase, but it's short. And I know it will be worth every minute of the glide.

Brady, our wonderful 7-year old mutt