There are so many ways to fall.
We fall from trees, off cliffs, and out of favour. We might fall for a trick or down a rabbit hole. We free fall into nothing, and all too often we feel as if we have fallen short.
We fall from grace. Sometimes we fall and we can't get up - like a beetle on its back, or a drunk. After my first baby was born, I experienced a tremendous fall of hair, I feared I might go bald. Our faces might fall or our weights on the scale, as might our stocks and our rankings. Our faces might fall after our stocks fall - in that order.
When we are delivered the worst news, we fall to our knees. Have you done this? I have. The knees simply lose their capacity to bear the weigh, the horror, and we fall.
- Jill Christman, Falling
Have you ever fallen to your knees? It’s like rising to your feet. It’s not a choice. When we rise to our feet in celebration or in being compelled by beauty, it’s because we value things more powerful than ourselves and are commanded and then pulled upwards. When we fall to our knees it’s because we are supported in ways we didn’t realise and by things beyond our understanding, like love and trust. Then, when these things are robbed from us, the horror, and we fall.
In falling, fundamentally, we move from one state of body or mind or existence to another, suddenly and involuntarily. To fall is to change. Fast.
- Jill Christman, Falling
The two most powerful acts that the human body is capable of are rising and falling. Falling implies getting back up in all cases but one, when we join the fallen. Rising means to go again despite all the disappointment and the pain.
Even though there are so many ways to fall, we ultimately fall for only two reasons: something unseen gets in our way or there is no ground beneath our feet. Human beings are always trying to avoid falling or trying to regain their footing. Falling haunts each and every step we take.
In many ways, our life can be understood in terms of how far we are from a fall. From learning how to walk, recognising our imminent death, or picking up the pieces of our ourselves and our broken dreams. The child who takes their first steps is learning how to not fall down. From then on until our death, we hope to avoid falling but are also always preparing for a fall. We see this when we reign in expectations by remembering that “what goes up must come down” or when we are reminded by tragedy that despite our efforts and our desperation, things “fall apart”.
Sometimes, we recognise that we’re about to fall. We only realise this when it’s too late. The obstacle has already been tripped over or the ground is already retreating. In cases like these, although we may avoid the pain of surprise, we can be hurt by the illusion that we can avoid our fate as we watch everything fall to pieces.
When people have had enough, they say they’re being pushed to the edge. And, at the same time, to really live is to live on the edge. By analogy, the person who takes risks and transforms themselves is living on the edge of their personality. Life begins and ends at the place where we’re about to fall.
There is no fall which is insignificant. If it were not so, we would not spend our lives trying to avoid falling or living on the edge, the place where we are one step or one mistake from a fall.
I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Is it because I wish I took greater physical risks? Because I want to be the kind of mother who belays the climbing rope of life out a little farther for my over-protected children? Or simply because the capacity for a human being to overcome the natural fear of falling captivates me?
- Jill Christman, Falling
Christman’s essay is a meditation on her own son’s love of climbing trees and her fear that he would fall. She reveals how significant falling is to the human condition. A fear of falling is one of two simple fears that we’re all born with (the fear of loud noises being the other). Yet, everywhere, we’re falling, unavoidably, and sometimes even purposely. It’s as if humans were made to overcome themselves.
Ever since he started climbing, if he could find a branch above - something to grab, a foothold - he wouldn't look down, only up, only up to the next branch of possibility.
As if he doesn't even think of what's below him. Only what's above.
- Jill Christman, Falling
Falling is a downward orientation. That is, despite the vast space above, we’re concerned only with what’s below. Adventurousness and transcendence aim up, conformity and comfort down. We are caught in a tug of war between these two ways of orienting ourselves to the world. Between heaven and hell. Between wonder and fear. There’s always something above and below us.