skydiving and the exploration of opposites

This is the first time I’ve ever written about skydiving.

Part of that is because skydiving is not generally relatable. Most people won’t ever skydive, much less pursue it as a passion. Trying to describe to someone what happens when you skydive is like trying to tell them about your dream last night.

The other part is that I am so young in the sport it’s hard to self-reflect. It’s hard to comprehend what something means to you when you’re clouded by the overwhelm of beginning.

And yet, insights rise to the surface from time to time. I’ll find myself in clear skies of understanding or flying through drifts of self-awareness. Occasionally there will be moments of such deep calm at the door of an airplane where, tucked between surges of adrenaline, it all clicks, like I was always meant to jump.

If you tell someone you skydive, the most common question you’ll get is if you’re an adrenaline junkie. But from my very first skydive I knew there was something spiritual going on beyond the physiological rush, even if I wouldn’t be able to put my finger on it for a few years.

Like most Eastern traditions, Taoism finds its roots in the belief that change is all there is. And change, to a Taoist, is merely an ongoing conversation between the polar opposites of nature (for example: hot and cold, giving and taking or yin and yang). And between all opposites exists an important relationship.

One of the Taoist principles is: If you want to attain something, start with its opposite. Lao Tzu said:

“In order to contract a thing, one should surely expand it. In order to weaken, one will surely strengthen first. In order to overthrow, one will surely exalt first. In order to take, one will surely give first. This is called subtle wisdom.”

And if you want to maintain something: “Be bent, and you will remain straight. Be vacant, and you will remain full. Be worn, and you will remain new.”

Skydiving has been an experience of intense fear, chaos, and overstimulation. But it is becoming evident that there is an interplay of opposites at work. Through the intensity and borderline terror I have discovered a spiritual avenue very different than yoga and meditation.

There’s something about being in fear that makes me resilient. In the chaos there is peace. And through the overstimulation I find stillness. Becoming a skydiver was a curveball, but in the philosophy of opposites, makes perfect sense.

In skydiving I am reminded that spirituality is not confined to spiritual spaces. If we are spiritual beings having a human experience, then the spiritual practice never stops. It will follow us everywhere. Even the sky is no limit.

in question

We create personal brands to package our ideas and streamline our message to the world around us. Like any branding conversation—consistency is of the essence. But what makes a personal brand different from a business brand is its humanity. Personal brands are based on our human values and identity.

Perhaps some personal brands exist for artistic purposes, but in most cases they’re the vehicle for an offering. 

And clearly that’s working for a lot of people. I’m sure many feel that their personal brand is an authentic and accurate reflection of who they are, and that followers are indeed getting trusted advice and personal insights.

But no matter how you slice it, a personal brand is made of parameters. While a brand can evolve, a brand cannot be all things.

Therein lies the issue, and one I’ve been grappling with myself. If you plot the dots of what my life looks like—yoga, meditation, skydiving, writing, podcasting, travel—you’d get a confused brand when you try to pull it all together.

Having a purpose, knowing what you offer, choosing a niche—these are the first tips you’re going to get when you build your personal brand. But for those of us whose hearts are polyamorous in the context of passion and even vocation, this advice might actually be detrimental.

Brands are pretty packages, and personal brands strive for the same thing. But I am not a pretty package. Does any human really feel that they are? Considering that our nature is more messy, I imagine it’s hard to uphold the consistency of a personal brand without jeopardizing well-being. And, we wouldn’t have to reach far for statistics that confirm this hypothesis.

But still, I’m left with questions. What if we don’t owe the world a consistent expression? And to what degree does the container of a personal brand suffocate our spontaneity, or even potential? What if branding is dumbing down our audiences by the assumption they can’t handle more?

I’m excited by the subtle anarchy that exists in the refusal to turn myself into a brand, or something that can be easily consumed. And what might be a sacrifice on the material plane may just make the soul wealthy.

moving toward / moving away

I’m moving toward creating (and maintaining) open space. I think of the word “busy” the same way I think of the words “stress” or “anxiety” or “mindful” and how they function in our culture: like infertile soil. Concepts so over-cultivated that nothing new can grow. Instead of trying to be “less busy,” which feels like “busy” in another outfit, I’ve been focused on creating space and sitting in it. Whether it’s small spaces that sprinkle throughout the day or afternoons of unassigned time, the practice is deconstructing the notion that space is meant to be filled.

I’m moving away from the idea that progress should happen in a forward direction. When I think about progress, my subconscious generates an image of running toward something. But if we don’t know what we’re actually running toward, is that progress? How do we know that the direction isn’t actually backwards? And how do we know that we’re not in fact running away from something? To me it seems like the metaphorical running might be the problem—something I’m moving away from to find out. 

creative health