To Jump or Not to Jump
Here’s the thing, plunging into unknown depths is scary, very scary. But I suppose we’ve all had to do it at one time or other. Heck, remember taking your first steps? I don’t either, but still, there came a time in your little toddler brain when you connected some dots and realized it was possible to walk on two feet. So off you went. I remember watching my children do this. They usually started by pulling themselves up on something, a coffee table, a wall and then got up nerve and pushed off in whatever direction they faced. It took some tries but soon enough, my kids learned to walk. Not so bad. Then came other leaps and sometimes bounds. One after the other, kindergarten, shoe-lace tying, bike-riding, swimming, smoke-bomb building, etc. etc. They did it all, sometimes with their eyes closed, sometimes prematurely, and sometimes without permission but my children all found something they wanted to do and then did it—just did it. Took the plunge.
Seems to me that the older you get the harder it is to take that first dive, to jump in and start swimming. I’ve been thinking about this lately. The turning point, the decision factor, D-Day, the point of no return. What happens in the space between not-jumping and jumping? How do you know when it’s time to take the plunge?