My son turned one a few weeks ago. For 362 days my husband and I watched him in amazement, reaching all those milestones that make the first year so momentous. And then, in the days just prior to his birthday, he did it again when he started walking. I sat watching him, realizing I hadn’t seen him resort to crawling for a few days. And he’d stopped cruising, clinging to furniture or legs or dogs when he needed a little extra support. That kid took those first few steps of freedom and literally ran with it, squealing in delight.
I’ve never really held the opinion that I live my life with abandon. Calculated risks? Sure. Leaps of faith? Of course. But actual abandon, the stuff that allows a tiny being barely two feet tall to just let go and move forward into the enormous world, sight unseen? Not so much. But seeing the joy on his face as my son took those first unfettered steps, that was enough to make me want to take my own.
Writing for me is a double-edged sword – I tend to enjoy it, unless someone else will be reading. Maybe it’s the idea of my words shuttling off into unknown territory, the inability to know whether they will find friend or foe, acceptance or rejection, criticism or support. Fear of a potentially scary world greeting my thoughts has kept me in “cruise” mode for years, not willing to let go. Many thanks to my sweet peanut for showing me the way – today I take my first steps.