WHAT IF I FLY?
In the winter of 2023, I visited Manchester, North West England. It was my first—and so far, only—time there and also in the United Kingdom. Despite the biting cold, which was much harsher than what we Brazilians are used to and exacerbated by the humidity, I decided to explore the city on foot, guided by the GPS on my phone.
I can’t help but digress here. I love getting to know new places this way: by walking, seeing, hearing, and feeling the cities as they truly are, with their streets, houses, people, smells, and sounds. I feel that when you explore a new city from inside a van or a tour bus, with a local guide speaking through a microphone or listening to an automatic recording through your disposable earphones, you can’t experience it as authentically as you do when walking, relying only on your own feet.
I learned this thanks to a little book given to me by a dear friend, whom I unfortunately haven't seen in a while. She gave it to me when she found out I was traveling to Paris. The book is called The Flâneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris, by Edmund White. It’s an unusual travel guide that suggests exploring the entire city on foot, visiting picturesque and often overlooked places like the addresses of writers, thinkers, and artists who lived there, bars where intellectuals of the 1960s (and earlier) gathered, and corners that have shaped the intimate history of real people, just as real as the sidewalks and gardens beneath our feet. It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever received because I enjoyed every page, which translated into every step I took. Since then, the possibility of getting to know a place by exploring it on foot has influenced my decision to visit it.
But back to the story. It was on the cold and wet streets of Manchester—tinted with that terracotta hue found in Anglophone cities of the old and new world, thanks to their brick architecture, which has a certain charm but can seem a bit dull to our eyes accustomed to the colorful tropical landscapes—that I found myself, halfway down a block I hadn’t paid much attention to, facing the panel shown in the photo below:
Faced with this authentic, powerful message, the kind that shakes your soul and makes you think, I stopped and absorbed it for a few moments, feeling the cold breeze on my face from that part of the world, punctuated by a rare sunbeam daring to pierce the heavy, gray clouds and surprise my eyes like a small projectile hitting the surface of calm waters. It read, "What if I fall? Oh but my darling, what if you fly...?".
I know. It might be a bit cliché now. But it was the first time I read it, and it lingered in my mind for the rest of the trip, and maybe even beyond. Later, I found out it's a verse by Australian poet Erin Hanson, written when she was 21. Knowing this made me appreciate it even more.
***
I can put on wings and try to fly, risking a fall. More than just failing to meet expectations, I might get hurt. But these "wings" we're talking about here aren't made of wax like Icarus's, the Greek mythological character who fell from the sky despite his father Daedalus's warnings, when he flew too close to the sun with his makeshift wings of feathers, cloth, and beeswax.
The "wings" the poem suggests and inspires are symbolic, a metaphor for the arrogance in the myth's context. In our context, they represent possibilities. Conceptual rather than concrete, these wings, if they fail, are unlikely to cause any fatal accident. Falling and getting hurt in the process is a risk that needs to be considered, anticipated, evaluated, and measured. Sometimes, the outcome of this calculation suggests that it’s best to abort the adventure.
And this is where the “but” comes in. I might fall; that's a fact. I might fall, but... I might also succeed! I can try to "fly" through my dreams, projects, and desires. I can try to make the person I aspire to be takeoff from the paper where their sketch has rested for so long. I can try to make things real and... realize what they drive me to live. Can you imagine if that happens?
This reflection applies directly to me, as well as to my patients. How many of them have come to my office in distress, not with past failures, but with potential possibilities that unfold in their current stage of life?
How much do we plan, not only accomplishments like taking a trip, going back to college, getting the dream job, saving money, having a child, a special relationship, or simply changing within ourselves that feeling, that dysfunctional view of ourselves, of others, and of the world—that way of being that, at best, we call a pattern and, at worst, karma or destiny. How often do we end up not advancing beyond the planning stage because of disbelief in our ability to turn the page and change our present reality?
How much do we cling to past facts, to the solidified concepts we’ve built about ourselves, to the discouragement in the face of the enormous effort required to move the lever of change?
How much are our symbolic wings clipped or tied down by symbolic impediments, preconceived ideas about ourselves that, like a heavy burden, keep us grounded and prevent us from being better?
It's okay if negative suspicions are confirmed, showing that the project was indeed unfeasible. And it's perfectly fine if this realization comes after an attempt, or several, to take flight. Because—simple wisdom, but no less true—if we don’t try, we’re certain of one result: failure. If we do try, we have at least two possible outcomes: success or failure. Not to mention the intermediate possibilities, which have their own charm.
In our internal world, no change is small, no progress is insignificant, no flight is trivial. Only those who dared to change internally, to do things differently, not outwardly but inwardly, understand the magnitude and significance of such a change.
All this to ask my patients, and myself, how often our meticulously calculated projects leave out the benefits of... succeeding? Whether pursuing a concrete project or merely doing something subtly different from how we’ve always done it—a victory that only we perceive and celebrate, with a pleasure that's immensely satisfying.
I’m fully aware of the thorns, scars, and all kinds of emotional and material obstacles that each person might face, standing in the way of such possibilities. That’s why psychotherapy is so important: it helps us understand what we’re missing and recognize what we have, so we can take flight on our personal journey.
Now, reaching the end of these reflections, I think I understand why I started by mentioning the exploration of unknown places on foot before talking about the process of flying. Perhaps it's because, to fly, we first need to have our feet firmly on the ground, the ground representing the reality of today, the here and now. We need to be sure that our feelings and thoughts are not deceiving us, that we are aware and in tune with our discontents, desires, and plans. Only then is the flight not just possible but legitimate.
Happy walks through your inner world, with its sidewalks wet from the cold humidity of your deepest fears but also illuminated by possible sunbeams of hope. May you walk securely and lightly on the ground your conscious feet tread.
May you gain momentum to "fly".
I can’t help but digress here. I love getting to know new places this way: by walking, seeing, hearing, and feeling the cities as they truly are, with their streets, houses, people, smells, and sounds. I feel that when you explore a new city from inside a van or a tour bus, with a local guide speaking through a microphone or listening to an automatic recording through your disposable earphones, you can’t experience it as authentically as you do when walking, relying only on your own feet.
I learned this thanks to a little book given to me by a dear friend, whom I unfortunately haven't seen in a while. She gave it to me when she found out I was traveling to Paris. The book is called The Flâneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris, by Edmund White. It’s an unusual travel guide that suggests exploring the entire city on foot, visiting picturesque and often overlooked places like the addresses of writers, thinkers, and artists who lived there, bars where intellectuals of the 1960s (and earlier) gathered, and corners that have shaped the intimate history of real people, just as real as the sidewalks and gardens beneath our feet. It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever received because I enjoyed every page, which translated into every step I took. Since then, the possibility of getting to know a place by exploring it on foot has influenced my decision to visit it.
But back to the story. It was on the cold and wet streets of Manchester—tinted with that terracotta hue found in Anglophone cities of the old and new world, thanks to their brick architecture, which has a certain charm but can seem a bit dull to our eyes accustomed to the colorful tropical landscapes—that I found myself, halfway down a block I hadn’t paid much attention to, facing the panel shown in the photo below:
Faced with this authentic, powerful message, the kind that shakes your soul and makes you think, I stopped and absorbed it for a few moments, feeling the cold breeze on my face from that part of the world, punctuated by a rare sunbeam daring to pierce the heavy, gray clouds and surprise my eyes like a small projectile hitting the surface of calm waters. It read, "What if I fall? Oh but my darling, what if you fly...?".
I know. It might be a bit cliché now. But it was the first time I read it, and it lingered in my mind for the rest of the trip, and maybe even beyond. Later, I found out it's a verse by Australian poet Erin Hanson, written when she was 21. Knowing this made me appreciate it even more.
***
I can put on wings and try to fly, risking a fall. More than just failing to meet expectations, I might get hurt. But these "wings" we're talking about here aren't made of wax like Icarus's, the Greek mythological character who fell from the sky despite his father Daedalus's warnings, when he flew too close to the sun with his makeshift wings of feathers, cloth, and beeswax.
The "wings" the poem suggests and inspires are symbolic, a metaphor for the arrogance in the myth's context. In our context, they represent possibilities. Conceptual rather than concrete, these wings, if they fail, are unlikely to cause any fatal accident. Falling and getting hurt in the process is a risk that needs to be considered, anticipated, evaluated, and measured. Sometimes, the outcome of this calculation suggests that it’s best to abort the adventure.
And this is where the “but” comes in. I might fall; that's a fact. I might fall, but... I might also succeed! I can try to "fly" through my dreams, projects, and desires. I can try to make the person I aspire to be takeoff from the paper where their sketch has rested for so long. I can try to make things real and... realize what they drive me to live. Can you imagine if that happens?
This reflection applies directly to me, as well as to my patients. How many of them have come to my office in distress, not with past failures, but with potential possibilities that unfold in their current stage of life?
How much do we plan, not only accomplishments like taking a trip, going back to college, getting the dream job, saving money, having a child, a special relationship, or simply changing within ourselves that feeling, that dysfunctional view of ourselves, of others, and of the world—that way of being that, at best, we call a pattern and, at worst, karma or destiny. How often do we end up not advancing beyond the planning stage because of disbelief in our ability to turn the page and change our present reality?
How much do we cling to past facts, to the solidified concepts we’ve built about ourselves, to the discouragement in the face of the enormous effort required to move the lever of change?
How much are our symbolic wings clipped or tied down by symbolic impediments, preconceived ideas about ourselves that, like a heavy burden, keep us grounded and prevent us from being better?
It's okay if negative suspicions are confirmed, showing that the project was indeed unfeasible. And it's perfectly fine if this realization comes after an attempt, or several, to take flight. Because—simple wisdom, but no less true—if we don’t try, we’re certain of one result: failure. If we do try, we have at least two possible outcomes: success or failure. Not to mention the intermediate possibilities, which have their own charm.
In our internal world, no change is small, no progress is insignificant, no flight is trivial. Only those who dared to change internally, to do things differently, not outwardly but inwardly, understand the magnitude and significance of such a change.
All this to ask my patients, and myself, how often our meticulously calculated projects leave out the benefits of... succeeding? Whether pursuing a concrete project or merely doing something subtly different from how we’ve always done it—a victory that only we perceive and celebrate, with a pleasure that's immensely satisfying.
I’m fully aware of the thorns, scars, and all kinds of emotional and material obstacles that each person might face, standing in the way of such possibilities. That’s why psychotherapy is so important: it helps us understand what we’re missing and recognize what we have, so we can take flight on our personal journey.
Now, reaching the end of these reflections, I think I understand why I started by mentioning the exploration of unknown places on foot before talking about the process of flying. Perhaps it's because, to fly, we first need to have our feet firmly on the ground, the ground representing the reality of today, the here and now. We need to be sure that our feelings and thoughts are not deceiving us, that we are aware and in tune with our discontents, desires, and plans. Only then is the flight not just possible but legitimate.
Happy walks through your inner world, with its sidewalks wet from the cold humidity of your deepest fears but also illuminated by possible sunbeams of hope. May you walk securely and lightly on the ground your conscious feet tread.
May you gain momentum to "fly".
Image source: the author
.jpeg)
Comments
Post a Comment