Nothing But Air beneath Me

     I was running towards the edge of a cliff. A man running behind me was shouting,  "Run! Run faster!"

    This was not a nightmare, and it was a dream only in the sense of my having at any time in my life dreamed of flying, which, actually, I never have. But here I was, running as fast as I could, encumbered as I was by the harness around my chest and legs, towards the edge of a cliff and the emptiness beyond. Suddenly I was the Road Runner—one moment running on the cliff, the next my feet churning on air.

    Then I was just sitting in a hammock under a gorgeous kite bearing me up through the air with my pilot, Sebastian, behind me. All I had to do was sit comfortably on my swinging chair and enjoy the amazing sensation of floating above the Alpine peaks and the chalets and streets of Grindelwald, Switzerland, as the fog revealed and then closed again blue patches of sky.

    A few days earlier, walking back to our hotel after a hike, my sister Sharon and I had paused to look up at the colorful paragliders dotting the sky like bubbles. "Did you ever want to do that?" Sharon asked dreamily.

    I shrugged. Not really; basically I like my boots on the ground. Still, it would be beautiful to see all those snowy Alpine peaks, the Eiger and the Monk and all their minions, from the sky. "Well," I added with a shrug, "if someone offered it to me, I would take it."

    It didn't occur to me that all I had to do was pay my money and I, too, could be floating in the air under a large umbrella.

     But Sharon, who has always had dreams of flying, was already thinking that maybe this was her chance. In the next few days she did some research, some thinking, some looking at her budget, and then announced that she was going to book a trip with a paraglider.

    As easy as that? If Sharon was going to take this adventure, so could I. "Sign me up, too," I said.

    It was foggy on the day of take-off. The four paragliding pilots and their passengers waited at the top of the cliff for a hole in the fog. Sharon was first in line. "Run," her pilot cried, but before they reached the take-off spot, the hole filled, and they had to step aside. I was next in line.

    Um. I thought I would watch Sharon jump off a cliff first.

    Suddenly there was a hole in the fog and I was ordered to run and Sebastian was shouting at me to run faster, and then I was floating. As easy as that.

    It was beautiful. It was dreamy. The fog obscured the tips of the Alps, but its shift and swirl made beautiful, changing pictures. The pilot turned us to the left so we could fly over the dark green forest and silver ribbon of the Milibach River flowing out of Bachalpsee, where I had been swimming a few days before. There, from my floating chair, I uncorked a small vial of my husband's ashes and watched as his spirit disappeared over the river, the forest, and the Swiss Alps.