Here I am again. I've been here before, many times. At first it was just my toes. The water felt cool and wonderful, and I yearned for more. Looking out at that wild blue tundra, my heart leapt and cried out. All I wanted to know was how to swim. Every part of me wanted to fall head-first into the water and take off. Yet my legs were numb and my heart befuddled. I knew that if I could swim, I could abandon the tip-of-the-toes theology and explore the vast reaches of the ocean, from its deepest depths to the way the sun sparkles on its horizon. But I couldn't do it without swimming. I didn't know how to swim, so I couldn't get anywhere. Everything appeared hopeless.
So I studied swimming. I threw out all pre-conceptions and chewed through several guides on swimming, and even poured my life into the book on swimming. The best swimmer of them all--the designer of swimming--even came to my aide. It was an exciting time; I learned that there was a right and a wrong way to swimming, and it surprised me that many thought they were swimming when they weren't--they ended up just doggy-paddling in place, going nowhere and drowning without knowing it, believing the whole time Wthey were on top of the game. The mystery of swimming began to unravel until it formed a mosaic masterpiece before me. It was then that I laughed out loud and shouted, "I got it!"
Yet I still needed to do it. I'd discovered the truth. But I hadn't actually gotten into the water and began swimming. The tips of my toes still dipped into the surf. Without hesitation I stepped forward, and the cool water rushed over my feet. I can tell you it felt so awesome! And I walked out a ways until the water lurched up to my ankles--and this is where I stand. I have moved forward, I know the swimming technique, the instructor is before me, urging me forward, but I am rooted in place, ankle-deep in the water.
Why have I stopped? I don't know. "Just dive in and swim!" I tell myself, but my muscles aren't so enthusiastic. I feel paralyzed. The great blue ocean calls me forward, calls me to an enchanted and wonderful existence, something so much better than the dry and parched desert from whence I came. It is odd; such a calling, and I find myself glancing back at the shore, at the hot desert with nothing to offer, and part of me wants to get out of the water and return to my dirty little hovel. Is it because I am afraid of the ocean, is it because I think I am being jipped, is it because I think I know what's best for me?
Part of me wants the desert when part of me wants the ocean. I can't have both. And I can't just stand here ankle-deep. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. I have to either get out of the water or submerge myself in it. If I keep glancing back at the shoreline, if I keep letting hesitation rule my ways, if I continue to second-guess everything I know, if I continue to take everything with a grain of salt... How will I ever experience what it is like to ride with dolphins, to explore coral reefs, to see amazing and beautiful creatures in the ocean's blackness? I will be stuck here ankle-deep, catching dead seaweed around my legs, and what kind of existence is that?
So I studied swimming. I threw out all pre-conceptions and chewed through several guides on swimming, and even poured my life into the book on swimming. The best swimmer of them all--the designer of swimming--even came to my aide. It was an exciting time; I learned that there was a right and a wrong way to swimming, and it surprised me that many thought they were swimming when they weren't--they ended up just doggy-paddling in place, going nowhere and drowning without knowing it, believing the whole time Wthey were on top of the game. The mystery of swimming began to unravel until it formed a mosaic masterpiece before me. It was then that I laughed out loud and shouted, "I got it!"
Yet I still needed to do it. I'd discovered the truth. But I hadn't actually gotten into the water and began swimming. The tips of my toes still dipped into the surf. Without hesitation I stepped forward, and the cool water rushed over my feet. I can tell you it felt so awesome! And I walked out a ways until the water lurched up to my ankles--and this is where I stand. I have moved forward, I know the swimming technique, the instructor is before me, urging me forward, but I am rooted in place, ankle-deep in the water.
Why have I stopped? I don't know. "Just dive in and swim!" I tell myself, but my muscles aren't so enthusiastic. I feel paralyzed. The great blue ocean calls me forward, calls me to an enchanted and wonderful existence, something so much better than the dry and parched desert from whence I came. It is odd; such a calling, and I find myself glancing back at the shore, at the hot desert with nothing to offer, and part of me wants to get out of the water and return to my dirty little hovel. Is it because I am afraid of the ocean, is it because I think I am being jipped, is it because I think I know what's best for me?
Part of me wants the desert when part of me wants the ocean. I can't have both. And I can't just stand here ankle-deep. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. I have to either get out of the water or submerge myself in it. If I keep glancing back at the shoreline, if I keep letting hesitation rule my ways, if I continue to second-guess everything I know, if I continue to take everything with a grain of salt... How will I ever experience what it is like to ride with dolphins, to explore coral reefs, to see amazing and beautiful creatures in the ocean's blackness? I will be stuck here ankle-deep, catching dead seaweed around my legs, and what kind of existence is that?
2 comments:
Yup!
And an analogy for something else, too :)
No, I think I was missing it :)
I saw you online but you jumped off before I could IM ya. It's like you knew I was on and so you bailed :) I'm dying to talk to ya bro
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