How to Cliffnic
I recently had a picnic on the edge of a cliff.
Getting there required a drive along a dusty, unpaved road, winding further away from anything familiar. The car kicked up a trail of dust, the valley below slowly revealing itself through breaks in the trees.
Upon arrival, the first order of business wasn’t unpacking food or finding a scenic spot to sit. Instead, it was putting on a harness, tightening a helmet strap, and signing a liability waiver. A small but symbolic act—releasing control for the unknown, agreeing to participate in whatever might unfold.
A fear of open-air heights has lingered for as long as I can remember for me. Over the years, exposure therapy has taken many forms—skydiving, cliff jumping, zip-lining—each one an attempt to outmatch fear with action.
Yet, standing at the edge of this cliff, the same familiar pulse of anxiety surfaced in my stomach. A quiet but persistent discomfort. My mind already constructing escape routes, calculating distance, anticipating outcomes that weren’t real. It’s strange how the body can feel perfectly safe while the mind insists otherwise.
The invitation for us was simple: sit down, breathe, and enjoy a meal. A blanket was laid out, a picnic basket opened, small vegetarian and gluten-free bites placed between us. Everything about the moment was ordinary, except for the steep drop inches away. My body remained grounded, but my mind flew.
At first, the experience was quite unsettling. My edges of awareness sharpened. Every shift in weight felt exaggerated. My thoughts wandered to worst-case scenarios, mapping out every possible misstep. My mind, resistant to stillness, pulled in all directions. It was a reminder of how easily fear creates its own reality, even when my body is entirely safe.
Then, something changed. Not suddenly, but gradually.
The weight of silence began to press into the moment. The valley stretched endlessly below, unmoving. The air settled. Breath, once shallow and rapid, deepened. Shoulders softened. Body temperature cooled. There was no dramatic realization or forced effort—just the slow release of tension, as if my mind had finally grown tired of resisting.
The presence of nature became more noticeable. The way the sky opened without boundary. The way the wind moved with its own rhythm. The way the rock beneath provided silent, unwavering support. It felt like an invitation for me to stop holding on so tightly.
The vastness of the space no longer felt threatening. Instead of being on the edge of something dangerous, it felt like being in the center of something still. The cliffs, the valley, the sky—they weren’t waiting to be conquered. They just existed. And so did this moment.
Memories of past height-defying experiences surfaced—not in the usual way, as a point of comparison, but as a contrast in intention. Those experiences were about overcoming fear through force, rushing toward discomfort as a means of proving something. This moment, by contrast, wasn’t about conquering anything. It was about being with what was there. Not resisting the fear, not pushing it away, but letting it exist without letting it lead.
My mind still tried to resist. For a while, there was a battle—an instinct to pull away, to hold onto tension, to prepare for a fall that wasn’t coming. But as my body settled, my mind slowly followed.
Sitting there, a quiet clarity emerged: reality is perfect as it is.
It will continue to shift and evolve, in its own nature and time. Nothing needs to be forced into change. My mind often operates as if things must be fixed or improved before they can be accepted, but sometimes, acceptance is the very thing that allows change to unfold. The lesson was subtle but undeniable—life is always moving, but not everything requires intervention.
It made me think of other moments, other times when resistance has made things harder. How often my instinct is to push against what is uncomfortable, to try to mold reality into something easier to hold. But reality doesn’t need to be gripped—it only asks to be witnessed.
Nature knows this well—the wind moves without resistance, the valley stretches without effort, the rock remains still without grasping. Everything follows its own rhythm, unbothered by how it is perceived.
Eventually, the picnic ended. The same path was taken back, the same car ride returned, the same dirt road stretched ahead. But something felt different. Perhaps nothing had changed at all. Or perhaps everything had.
And that is how I learned to cliffnic.
