I watch him for a while as he swings across the pool from one dangling ring to the next. He makes it look so easy, so effortless, soaring over the water like a gymnast. “I’m going to try that,” I announce to my husband, heaving myself out of the water. “I’m going to try those ring things.”
“Really? I think it’s a lot harder than it looks,” Brad says.
“Yeah, well, I’m going to try it anyway,” I say, striding toward the line.
No matter that I have arms like silly string. No matter that I can muster a total of six man-style push-ups. I will master the rings. I will soar from ring to ring across the pool like Jane of the Jungle.
I get in line, shivering behind six beefy-armed men. The fact that there are no other women in the line gives me slight pause. The one man I’d watched earlier continues to glide over the water each time his turn comes, grabbing and releasing the rings in a graceful rhythm. I keep my eye on him, studying his technique, watching his timing.
When it’s finally my turn, I wipe my hands on my bare legs and grab the ring with my right hand. And then I take a giant step back and leap off the edge of the concrete.
I don’t even make it to the second ring. Instead, I swing forward, paw at the air with my left hand, miss the second ring entirely and then swing back again. I neglect to let go of the ring in time. My body hits the concrete wall, and I slide like a dead fish into the cold water.
I come up sputtering, a crowd of onlookers peering over the side of the pool, calling down, “Are you okay?” One guy simply says, “Whoa.”
Noah still talks about “the time Mommy hit the pool wall and fell into the water with everyone watching.” I shudder when I think what I must have looked like, flailing gawkily in my tankini, my body smacking the wall like a side of beef on a hook.
Still, I don’t regret trying the Tarzan rings. Despite my damaged ego, I’m glad I gave it my best shot.
I’ve leaped a lot in my life, especially in recent years. I leaped into moving to Nebraska (okay, maybe we call that one “was dragged against her will”). I leaped into faith. I leaped into writing. Most recently I’ve leaped into public speaking. At some point in the midst of all these leaps, I’ve smacked into a wall – a wall of disappointments, doubts, failures, frustrations and fear.
Leaping is scary. Yet I also believe that despite the risks and the fear, it’s necessary. Because if you don’t ever leap, you won’t ever know what could have been. And what could have been might have made all the difference.
For me, leaping has made the difference between unbelief and faith. It’s made the difference between living passively and living passionately. It’s made the difference between existing comfortably in the box and thriving in the wild open.
It’s true, sometimes when you leap you fall; sometimes you smack hard into a wall and get the wind knocked clean out of you. But sometimes you soar. You may not realize it in the moment, but in leaping you are soaring into the start of something new, something beautiful and life-changing and good.
It all begins with the leap.
Tell me, what leap has made the biggest difference in your life?
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This story ran last Saturday in the Lincoln Journal Star.
{and I know I’ve used this picture of Rowan leaping into a Minnesota lake a bunch of times on this blog, but I can’t help myself – it’s such a great picture, and that kid is absolutely fearless!}
