I’ve been scared of heights my entire life.
Mostly cliffs and steep stairways, steep hills, things like that. It makes my knees go all watery when I look at pictures of that city in China, the one that’s all built on a cliffside and is nothing but dizzying views of the valley floor, far, far below.
It even makes me nervous to look at rock climbers when they are dangling from some difficult rock face.
At a writer’s retreat, I wrote the following passage:
What is it like, not to be afraid? I’ve never known. Among the planar ferns, carpeted with dew- bedazzled moss and roofed with maple clerestory, I’m fine. Or, watching mist-silvered ripples run cross mossy swells of granite. Or ranging mile on mile through fir and cedar pillars, hot pitch perfume rising to my nose. It’s easy to forget when things are comfortable.
But venturing along a…
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