There was something about you, 2013. You were rough and tumbly, full of ups and downs. You were about falling apart, putting yourself back together, with strategy, vision and confidence. You were about realizing love—all of its powers, dimensions and forms.
You were about this series of moments—my third trip to Barcelona, where Karl and I decided to take in Gaudi’s most famous, yet my most reluctant place to visit, the Sagrada Familia. Churches, you see, tend to make me very uneasy. I was the last one into the tower’s elevator, hence the first one who would have to step out. The elevator could only take folks so far, there’d be more steps to climb once we got out. And so, we climbed the rest of the way. To the top. 75 meters. 246 feet. About 25 stories. No big deal. I’m not afraid of heights. But one look out onto the microscopic normalcy below, one click, maybe two, of the camera’s shutter and I was done. Panic. I must get down from here. Now. Now. Now. NOW. I knew, with certainty, if I stayed up there any longer, I would die. I could see my body buried in the rubble, splintered and screaming in chaotic silence. I would be one of the faceless numbers in the paper, some unfortunate reporter cobbling together my life story from online bits and pieces. I would be gone and that would be it.
That couldn’t be it.