Next to the baseball field two young boys climbed the rickety chain link fence of the backstop where it met the third base dugout. They were all scrawny arms and legs as they made their way from the fence to the roof of the dugout.
Their unbroken voices peeled up the road as they dared one another to leap the eight feet to the ground below. The taller of the two neared the edge. An uncertain foot found the air…
I found myself aching with envy at their freedom. All I could think of was the way my middle-aged bones would rattle within me if I were to take that leap. These days it seemed all I did was worry.
I worried about the world. The fragile bonds holding us together seemed to be fraying by the minute. I worried about my work, whether I’d be the next one on the chopping block; secretly hoping it would be someone else, then worrying I was a bad person for having those thoughts.
I worried after myself. Was I healthy? Would I remain so? I could feel the passing of time. Would I achieve the dreams I had for myself?
That answer was easy, no. I never would, because I was ruled by all these worries. I just called them worries, because it is easier to hear that than to hear fear. Because I was afraid. I was afraid of failing at what I wanted most. I was afraid I would be hurt. I was afraid I might be good and then what would I have to beat myself up about?
Where along the path to older age does it say you have to give up your fearlessness? Why with experience does so much caution abound? I can look back across my life and see the time I wasted, why doesn’t that compel me to make the most of my days now, to pursue my dreams?
Why am I so afraid?
I looked at the boys laughing as they rolled in the grass. I wished for them that they would grow older and hang on to the fearlessness that had them picking themselves up off the grass to head back to the rickety fence to climb and leap again.
I hoped for myself, that I might find inspiration in them – a spark of courage – to help me make a leap of my own.
