There are days when I walk through the world alone and think to myself, “Remember the inflatable raft? The one being pulled by a speedboat at full tilt on Lake Travis, and the objective was to hold on for as long as possible—to shift your weight from side to side in anticipation of where gravity might falter—gripping the yellow, turgid plastic as it hit crest after crest of deceptively gentle wave until one of them would collide at just the right angle, and just the right speed, so that the force propelled you into the air, then back down into the water, tumbling. Do you remember the fear? It ballooned your heart. The disorientation of panic felt like a needle grazing the surface of it, threatening to increase pressure the more you flailed and rolled through the murky, aqueous environment. So you stopped struggling. Do you remember that? Do you remember that you stopped fighting? You let yourself be still. Your arms and legs ceased their frantic movement on a command that came through you from somewhere else. Your body rotated gently, righting itself. And when it found the light, you floated up. You lifted your head and there was the air; there was the sun; there was the world.

Do you remember what it was to trust letting go?”