Lessons Learned
The
Leap
The
month was June and summer vacation in Wisconsin had just begun. All of the kids
in our neighborhood exuberantly and together trekked seven blocks daily to the
city pool. Summer paradise, unquestionably. Every minute at the pool was
perfect from the first plunge to the banana popsicle we’d each buy for the
drippy wet stroll home. Something at the pool, however, had me
thoroughly captivated. It was the high
dive. I was seven that particular summer. Only the bravest of the brave ascended those
metal steps leading to the bouncy plank which seemed to catapult divers first
through the clouds then into the deep end of the pool. I was mesmerized. To
want something so badly, yet at the same time to be so absolutely intimidated
by it, left this curious youngster in a very perplexed, very conflicted place. Come on, try it, urged the older siblings and neighbor
friends. It’s not that hard, and we all will be right here. Right here? What exactly
does “right here” do to help when you are ascending those steps alone, walking
the plank alone, and mustering the courage for a leap through the clouds alone?
Smiling to affirm their sincere encouragement with unbudging feet seemingly
affixed to the poolside concrete, I continued to longingly watch the leaping.
Even though just seven, I was a good YMCA-trained and competitive swimmer who
understood the steely nerves required when poised on the starting block waiting
for the starter’s gun to sound and the swim race to begin. I had a growing
collection of swim ribbons and a strong shot at being a Junior Olympic
participant. But the high dive was different. Day after glorious day with
friends at the pool flew by on the wild wings of summer but with the issue of
the high dive looming unrelenting on the edges of my young mind. I had to make
the leap. The question was when. Gathering courage is no small or easy task,
for it demands a daring charge of the will, a very deliberate choice to
sidestep fear and reserve believing that the gain is worth the cost. Watching others leap did not evoke increased
bravery, it simply taunted. It was time. Without fanfare, pomp and
circumstance, or any salubrious pronouncement, I crossed the poolside concrete
to the metal steps, ascended them unflinchingly but with a few butterflies, and
walked the bouncy plank to the end where I curved my toes around the fiberglass
edge, took a deep breath and leaped. The older siblings and neighbor friends
didn’t have time enough to amass a cheering section, but they all did pause in
their playing to witness the splash. There. I did it. I took the leap, pierced the
water’s surface with pencil straightness, submerged, and then re-emerged with a
quiet victor’s grin. Life was never quite the same after the leap because there
was a new confidence, a new boldness that from then on kept a bit of a bridle
on those things that attempt to intimidate and subsequently paralyze action. I
learned to leap that day, that summer when I was seven, and it has been a
lesson of greatest significance throughout the next fifty years. Learning to
leap benefits all learning as each new topic, new chapter, new unit, new school
year, new skill, and on and on demands a willingness to set aside “I can’t”
while reaching instead towards “yes.” With a month until the new school year
begins, with a new job prospect on the horizon, with a dream itching to be
chased, with a relationship whispering for more effort, with a need crying for
your giftedness, with these and infinite others tickling at the edges of your
awareness, perhaps it is time to practice and prepare for some life changing
leaping. Take the leap. It is time.
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