This week I took a leap towards liberation.
This leap was years in the making, a lifetime really. It was frightening, made me break out in a panicked sweat, caused my heart to race, and paralyzed the rest of me. Standing there on the edge of vulnerability, I felt more a prisoner than I ever had. My lungs refused to take their fill, my limbs refused to wrap around myself for comfort. And yet, somewhere I found the courage to move forward to push off with my legs and dare to cross the chasm. Perhaps it was merely desperation that forced me to do it.
The landing was hideous. I lay ragged and bleeding for sometime. Then one by one, those that came across me on their path, stopped to tend to my wounds, to speak words of encouragement, to praise my brave, idiotic leap. Some even called it inspiring. I watched on as a few standing on the other side of the divide took flight, making a leap of their own, daring to meet me where I lay trying to recover.
Their courage, their daring soothed my battered body, beat life back into my heart. And, slowly, I rose to my feet. I rose with tears in my eyes to meet them, my fellow leapers, to hug them and thank them for their faith, love and encouragement. To celebrate the freedom that my vulnerability gifted me.
It's something I have always know: that blood, sweat and tears are the only path to liberation; that wall-shattering vulnerability is the path to true writing, the sharing of our souls.
So if you're standing on the cliff's edge wondering if you should take the leap, take heart, fear not, there will be others ready to nurse you and celebrate with you on the other side.