sinkwriter | Strength over time

The snow was still falling, light and gentle. The kind you could catch on your tongue and taste for a brief second before it melted away. Cold outside but not frigid, so long as you were bundled up properly: sturdy boots, warm coat, gloves, scarf, and hat.

We took to the hill in Grandma's backyard first. Small, easy, just enough of a dip.

My uncle grabbed a bright blue plastic sled, grasping it tight on each side with his large hands, and he ran and jumped, landing on his stomach -- whoosh and away! I watched in mild amusement as he zipped over and down the hill. My dad followed, whooping it up as he took his turn. My aunts weren't far behind. Grown siblings returning to child's play, challenging each other: Who could go the fastest? Who could go the farthest?

My sister gingerly settled herself into the hollow of her sled, wrapping her protective motherly arms around her youngest, a little baby girl bundle of cuteness and vibrant red hair peeking out from a marshmallowy pink snowsuit. We gave them a push, and they were on their way down the hill. Oops ... turning sideways halfway down the path.

Eventually though, my brave sister's inhibition gave way to adventure, and she took a chance, hopping onto her sled alone, her execution just short of a belly flop yet full of energy and daring. We laughed and she felt silly, but at least she tried. At least she tried.

I took turns, too -- one sitting in the sled, legs wrapped around my nephew; one lying down as my aunt grabbed me by the ankles and gave me and my sled a hearty shove. We were all laughing and shrieking with glee. It was fun.

But standing out there at the top of the hill, I felt surprising self-consciousness about my body and myself emerge from a childhood summit I thought I'd already conquered. I watched everyone else taking these huge dives, shooting down the hill, rocket-like, as they giggled and rolled in the snow and came back up to do it all again.

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't.

I was smiling but the others had no idea, the inner conflict I was feeling. I wanted to be that bold. I wanted to leap and glide. But I felt like I was too big. In my bulky winter coat. In my very skin. Like when I was in the fifth grade, already developing curves and breasts, feeling out of place among the other kids even though I was perfectly normal and average in size. I couldn't see myself that way. And in this moment, I still couldn't. I felt like I would break that sled if I tried to do it any other way than the wary lowering of self onto surface, nervously waiting to hear a snap.

My mom accidentally cracked one of the ancient plastic sleds and she was just a petite thing. If I tried ... what humiliation would I suffer? It would be a reminder that I did not belong out there with everyone else. I was not built for kid stuff anymore. I felt like dead weight. But that weight was fear.

I admit it. I was afraid.

That slope soon held no more challenge for the others, so they headed over to the hill in the schoolyard across the street, a wickedly steep descent of ice and snow. Again, resigned, I eased myself into the toboggan, each time sitting behind my aunt, cautiously leaning as she called out instructions. Lean left! Right! Left! Left! Riiiiight! To avoid the areas where we might get stuck in the snow.

It was entertaining, but I wanted more. I'd watched eagerly as my four-year-old nephew threw himself onto his sled and cruised over the snowy packed surface, weaving and sailing fast, grinning all the way. Fearless.

I was too afraid to do it that way. Silly doubts pushed at me, holding me back: I'm an adult, I'm too big for this kid sled, I'll break it or belly-flop, I'll look ridiculous, I won't be able to do it right. I couldn't possibly.

I longed to find the courage to jump.

It was growing dark, time to head back home. Everyone else had taken a final turn, now it was mine. I stood at the top of that steep hill, gazing down to the area where the little figures of my family waited patiently for me. My mind said, don't be foolish, just sit down and give yourself a push, do it like you always have. It works that way; all will be fine.

*******

But this past year 2007 has been difficult for me in so many ways. To be blunt ... playing it safe, gently coasting or staying put hasn't been fine. I feel like I've wasted so much time trying to please others and capture their approval, trying to fit into a specific mold, trying to follow the rules and be conventional, when the whole of me feels compelled to reach for something larger and more creative than even I can imagine.

Just as it wasn't when I stood on that hill, I realize it's not working. It's fine, my life has been fine, generally speaking, occasionally marvelous, but I feel like it could be so much better. And I have to be the one to take the leap.

Back to the hill!

*******

As the sky turned a deep, dark blue and the stars emerged, winking at me, I stood, my body tense with anticipation. While my mind tried to convince me to be practical and careful, the rest of my being was practically shouting, DO IT. JUMP! You have to at least try it once. If you don't, you'll always wonder what it felt like. This is your life now -- if you spend the rest of it wallowing in fear, you'll never accomplish anything. You'll never be a professional creative writer, you'll never sing on stage again. You'll never be able to savor each step of the journey. You'll be frozen in this spot, waiting for someone else to give you a push.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I gripped the edges of my sled, took a couple of deep breaths, and sprinted forward. No more waiting. No more thinking.

I leapt into the air.

As I landed belly-down, I thwacked my leg on the edge of the sled. OUCH. Brief pain pulsed at the top of my poor knee, but it was soon forgotten ... for I was flying!

Eyes wide, voice screaming in delight, I raced past my aunts' best distances, past my uncle's, even shooting right past my dad where he stood cheering me on, hooting and hollering that I'd gone the farthest. I'd set a new 'record'! Wheeeeeee!

Panting and laughing uproariously, I rolled out of the sled and pulled myself to my feet. I looked back up at the hill. It didn't look so big anymore. Not so looming or scary. What had I been so frightened for? Why did I do that to myself?

Sure, when I got back to the house and peeled off my soaking-wet jeans, I found some nasty purple bruises already emerging in the area directly above my right knee, from that graceless attempt to dive onto my sled. But so what? I changed into warm clothes and fixed myself a mug of scrumptious hot chocolate.

And that ride down the hill? Totally worth it.

The bruises, they'll fade, but the memory ... the feeling of accomplishing something remarkable ... that's never going away. And I want to keep that in my life always, in whatever I try to do.

Feel the fear ... and go for it anyway.

Happy New Year, everyone!