The Weight of Leaving

There is a specific silence that follows a departure, the kind that settles into the floorboards of a room after the door has clicked shut. It is not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of a space that has suddenly been relieved of its burden. I remember the way my father’s coat hung on the hook by the entryway, a heavy, wool-scented ghost that held the shape of his shoulders long after he had walked out into the rain. We spend our lives trying to anchor ourselves to the earth, terrified of the moment we might lose our footing, yet there is a profound honesty in the act of letting go. To leave the ground is to admit that the earth is not enough. We are creatures of gravity, yet we are haunted by the sky. What is it that we are truly seeking when we trade the safety of the soil for the thin, cold air of the heights?

Ola Cedell has captured this tension in the image titled Take off at Col de la Forclaz. It is a quiet study of the exact second where the tether to the world is severed. Does the air feel heavier to you once you have finally let go?