Yesterday afternoon Micah, who had been sitting at the kitchen table doing homework most of the day, asked if I wanted to go with him to the top of East Rock. East Rock is the closest thing we’ve got to a mountain here, a modest outcropping with a rock face, set on the eastern edge of New Haven. From the top, there’s an impressive view of the city and environs, including Long Island Sound. I have to admit I was less than enthusiastic (the day was cold and gray, it was getting late, I had work to do) but I decided to be a good sport because Micah and I rarely spend time together.

          Micah took a path he knew and I followed behind. The path ended with frightening abruptness on a rocky ledge. Micah stood there, way too close to the edge for my comfort. I stood behind him, heart racing, because I was logically nervous about standing so close to a sheer 300-foot drop. I realized, after a moment or two of gazing out across the landscape below, that another reason my heart was racing had nothing to do with fear. Between work and family obligations, my life of late has been reduced to going through the motions. Standing at the edge of a cliff was anything but mechanical; it was absolutely counter-intuitive and crazy. As any kid will tell you, danger is a kick in the pants. Throw in some natural beauty and you have a major sensory collision. Standing on a rock ledge high above New Haven, caught between my anxiety and the world below, I felt more alive than I have in months. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.