They were men falling.
Some falling quickly, like the stone,
others very slowly, like the feather,
one after another, falling.
They held hands.
They stood at the edge
and one after another, they jumped.
Some jumped right away to get it over with perhaps.
While others stood terrified for a long, long time.
But in the end, everyone of them,
in their own time, jumped.
They held on to each other by the hands,
with others who had jumped before,
and in groups of two or three or four and sometimes more,
they jumped.
Down into the darkness.
Down into the sobbing and the screaming and the terror.
Down because they could not return.
Down because they had come to the end.
Down, down, down.
But something new happened, a miracle really.
Because they held hands and only because they held hands,
they did not die.
they held on tight to one another and did not let go,
some strangers, some friends,
and did not let go and somehow
in the failing and the terror and the holding on to one another
they suddenly learned to fly.
And fly they did, up and up and up,
one after another,
to places they had never seen before.
And when they finally came back
they held each other in the eyes
hardly believing what had just happened
holding their breath and speechless,
but they knew.
And always down in them somewhere they will never forget.

(Written on the outside following Rob’s New Warrior Training Adventure