Fail Big.

Those were the words of Denzel Washington in his commencement speech at the University of Pennsylvania in 2011.

Fail Big.

Take chances.

Don’t be afraid to fall. Don’t be afraid to go outside the box.

What he didn’t mention, was, if you’re going to go for it, if you’re going to take risks, make sure you have a parachute, or at least strong arms to catch you.

Who will be there to catch you?

I was thinking about that this morning after a friend asked me to remind them of the title of a book I’d quoted from several months ago as we were chatting about life and taking risks and getting so stuck in the groove you don’t realize it’s actually your comfort zone.

The book is, Warriors of the Heart by Daanan Perry.

I read it in the 80s and one analogy, in particular, has always stuck with me. Perry suggested that often in life, we feel like we’re on a trapeze, swinging back and forth. We get comfortable with the to and fro, finding the swing comforting. There’s no friction against our body and the air and forget, friction creates energy.

One day, we’re just swinging merrily along when suddenly, a new trapeze comes flying towards us.

What’s that? we wonder.

When we realize it’s a shiny, brand new trapeze…We have a choice.

Hang onto our comfortable ride, or, let go and reach for the new vision coming our way.

New opportunities are full of many possibilities. But… where we’re at is so easy and comfortable, why disturb the status quo?

It is in the letting go, Perry writes, that growth happens. In that moment of hanging suspended mid-flight, held up by nothing more than invisible threads of gravity, we experience true freedom.

You could fall. You could fly…

The wind is blowin’ fierce today.

The baby finches are safe in their nest. The mama and papa keep watch.

Soon, the young ones will fly free.

It’s a risk they must take to know the beauty of flight.

It’s a risk they will take because their mama and papa will be there to catch them.

I’m on a zoom call when I hear the noise. Screaming and squawaking like someone, something is in pain.

My heart pounding, I pull off my headset and race upstairs from my office. When I get to the front door, I am too late. The crow has already raided the nest.

My chickies are gone.

Mama robin is confused. She keeps returning to the nest, food in beak. She stand on the edge looking in. Flies off. Returns.

Again and again.

I wish I spoke Robin. If I did I would go out and tell her what has happened. Tell her that this safe haven is no longer safe. That nature has taken its course. A predator has destroyed her hopes and dreams.

Her returning, again and again, is heartbreaking.

Finally, after several flights back and forth, she leaves and does not return.

The nest still rests on the wreath at our front door. Evidence of her industrious build, and the crow’s insurgence.

I know I need to clean it all up. I know I need to sweep away the debris. Clear the wreath of its presence.

Later, I tell myself.

For now, I continue to walk past the front door and glance up through the half moon transom window as if expecting to see her sitting on the rim of the nest, a tiny worm dangling from her beak, the eager mouths of her young open, waiting for it to fall.

Someone said, “Well, that’s nature. Were you upset when she fed a tiny worm to her babies?”

No. But, I’ve never bonded with a worm. I’ve never followed its conception journey.

This mother arrived at our front door while I was away in mid May. She spent a week crafting her nest, two weeks sitting on her eggs and up until yesterday, 10 days tending to her young.

And, while I knew they would eventually fly away and be gone, I felt like I was part of nature’s beauty unfolding. I was part of their journey.

We are using our front door again.

This morning, Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I left the house through it for our early morning walk.

When we returned, I stood on the front steps for a moment, closed my eyes and bid farewell to my avian companions.

I know it is nature. But sometimes the nature of this world to destroy, the nature of predators to swoop in and tear apart families, to blow up hopes and dreams of the young, sometimes, it makes me cry.

I sit silently and watch the river flow. Fast and deep. Spring run-off continues. The sky above is grey. The trees are in full bloom, green leaves dancing in the morning breeze. A squirrel scampers along the top of the fence. Birdsong fills the air.

The Boston Fern on our deck turns gently in the breeze. I spy a baby finches head peeking out from its nest within the fern.

And as I type, the papa finch lands on the railing of the deck outside my window.

I watch him. He tilts his head back and a gentle song rises out. It is a beautiful reminder of what is true, no matter the times, no matter the circumstances.

All of nature is a miracle.

All of it. Darkness and light. Yin and yang. Predators and prey.

We are all born miracles of life.

Sometimes, we lose our way.

The miracle is, most of us don’t.

Namaste.

In the snow below our upper deck, animal prints trail through the no longer pristine blanket covering the earth. Signs of this January melt that arrived on a gust of wind sweeping down from the Rockies, lie scattered across mother earth.

Once snow-laden branches stretch out bar arms entwining one another in a silent dance of hope. Has winter gone?  Is it time to get our juices flowing in anticipation of lengthening days beneath a welcoming sun? Is it time for spring?

Not yet cry out the geese, the ones who did not fly south and sit huddled up on icy banks along the river, squawking and honking in the morning light. Not yet.

Winter is not yet done.

This interlude of almost spring will not last.

Be patient.

And I spy my winter boots laying in the corner of the closet, my big puffy down-filled parka hanging above.

I want to leave them there. To let the sit forlorn and forgotten. To hide them away like Christmas cookies stored in tight containers in the freezer to keep me from indulging in what I do not need.

I want to indulge in these warmer days. To walk outside unencumbered by bulky clothing whose only purpose is to protect me from frostbite and cold toes and fingers.

I want to run free.

Be patient, honk the geese.

Winter will swoop in again. It is too soon for spring.

And so, I leave my parka hanging in plain view, my giant clunky fleece-lined boots lined up beneath them as if waiting for me to step into them again and take them for a walk in frosty temps and frigid air.

I leave my basket of heavy mittens and hats and scarves by the door, along with Beaumont the Sheepadoodles booties which he detests but is forced to wear when the temperature drops to Arctic zones.

I leave it all handy because like the geese who webbed feet paddle furiously beneath the rushing waters of the one thread of river that remains unfrozen, spring has not yet sprung. It is too soon.

But oh how I wish it had.

Oh how I wish I did not have to be patient.

But all my wishing and hoping will not change the course of the seasons here at the windward base of the Rockies.

All my dreaming of spring will not force winter to disappear like a distant memory grown too cold too remember.

All I can do is savour this interlude of spring-like weather and bathe in the gratitude that comes with knowing with every day that passes, winter’s return will not be as long now that its stay has been broken.

A NOTE ABOUT THIS POST

So…. I wrote my post in Word first this morning — it was a morning pages kind of exercise for free-fall writing. The purpose is to write without focusing on ‘the purpose’ but rather just the process of trusting in the process of letting whatever is seeking to appear, ‘fall out’.

I copied it and then got distracted and forgot to paste it in here before copying something else.

Oh no! I had forgotten to save it in Word and thought it was lost.

I have used a computer for decades – Word in particular. And in all that time, I was never sure how to find my ‘Clipboard’ other than the last saved item.

This morning, I learned something new!

wish I’d known it in December when I realized I’d inadvertently not saved the minutes for a board meeting for which I act as Secretary. (Until next week that is when I new secretary takes over and I step into the role of Vice-Chair – I’m pretty sure they’ll be happy to have me relinquish the role! 🙂 )

In the meantime, I am grateful to have discovered how to find my clipboard and retrieve things I copied after all this time! What a treat!