Emily Freeman at Chatting at the Sky has a beautiful post about the
encouragement given to a young girl as she crouched
at the edge of the high dive. She walked down off the board, returned later
to take the leap, and propelled herself off the board into the cold water
below. (But you should still read the blog post - the writing is wonderful and
I promise I haven't ruined the story.)
My father in law grew up
playing stickball on the streets of New York City. Someone hit the ball onto an
apartment building rooftop, and he went after it. He got as close as he could -
the rooftop of the neighboring building. As he stood there, looking across the
chasm between the rooftop he could climb and the rooftop that held the small
rubber ball, so close yet out of reach, his friends shouted - JUMP! JUMP!
You can make it in TWO JUMPS!
The little boy had climbed, surveyed, considered the advice, and
reconsidered his original plan. He came empty handed to his friends who had counted
on him to retrieve the ball and save the game. I don't know if they played another game
that day, but the history of stickball in New York suggests that eventually
they found a new ball and played more games.
I'm glad for the little girl who listened to her gut, respected herself
enough to back away from the edge, reconsider, return, and leap into blue skies and cold water. I'm glad for
the little boy who thought better of advice given by people who couldn't see
the flaw in their plan, glad that he didn't feel compelled to sacrifice himself in
order to save face with his friends.
Kudos to the people that cheered on the little girl, who shouted
encouragement when they could have shouted anything - could have soured the
opportunity with taunts or jeers, or left her alone with her fears in deafening
silence. I tip my hat to those long-ago children who gave their best
advice and welcomed back the little boy who didn't take it and came back empty
handed.
How many times do I say "tell me what to do to get this to work out" when what I really need is: tell me that I can come back empty handed and still be okay with you,
remind me that I can still play with you. Help me turn down the howling wind of this
fear so I can better listen to my gut, sort out my own mind, consider feedback
and the options and not feel rushed to step back from the best and scariest vantage point here at this edge.
"Leap, and the net will appear."
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