May 11, 2017 | I'd been loitering on the perimeter of bravery. It was time for stepping off the edge, for taking some calculated risks, for seeing where my writing would take me.
Two years ago, I looked in the bathroom mirror at a woman who was turning 50. Five decades. Half a century. The golden birthday. My cell phone beeped, and I looked down at its screen to see it was wishing me a happy birthday by slapping me in the face with a list of celebrities who were also born in 1965 . . . Viola Davis, Robert Downey, Jr., Diane Lane, Martin Lawrence, Julia Ormand, Sarah Jessica Parker, Chris Rock, J.K. Rowling, Brooke Shields, Nicholas Sparks, Ben Stiller, Shania Twain . . .
"What the heck, Internet?" I said to my phone. "Pointing out my mediocrity is not a nice way to start a birthday!"
I looked up from the phone and questioned the woman peering condescendingly from the mirror, "Rowling? Sparks? Iron Man? We're all fifty? How'd that happen?"
My reflection rolled her eyes.
"You know, you're not getting any younger, either," I said like it was a surprise neither one of us had youthfully Benjamin Buttoned back to our forties.
"No kidding," my reflection replied with smirky smugness. "I see it every time you glance this way."
Rude reflection. I've always had my doubts about her attitude, and now I'm certain she's spiteful in her estimation. Since I cannot do anything about my smug mirror self, I turned away from the beginnings of crow's feet and jowls and set a goal I could control.
Before I got any older, I was going to do something with all the stuff I'd been writing.
Two years have passed, full of beta versions, beta readers, revisions, revisions of revisions, and multiple revisions of those revisions.
And then, just before my 52nd birthday, I went on my first ever Caribbean cruise, a 30th wedding anniversary gift from my better half and the love of my life. Among this cruise's many excursions was a zip line through the rain forests of St. Thomas. Not one, but six zip lines and two rope bridges, ending with a zip line called the Yo-Yo. If my husband knows loop-de-loop roller coasters are a no-go in my world, what did he find acceptable about a yo-yo zip line? Sounds like something I'd be terrified of, right? That description might cause waves of adrenaline and anticipation to run through the thrill-seekers, but for a Functional Fraidy Cat, it caused waves of nausea and dread.
I want to be candid here - I was seriously terrified. It took every ounce of the courage found within my genetic makeup to act normal as we made our way up the steep streets to the highest point of the island. I had to stop myself from jumping from the vehicle and running back to the ship. I wanted to wrap my arms around a palm tree and refuse to let go. I identified escape routes at every hairpin turn. My smiling husband, holding tightly to my hand, was the only reason I remained.
We were fitted with helmets and harnesses. We were instructed how to zip. We were handed our own trolley to carry up to the first platform. I have never prayed for the strength of a carabiner before that day, but I prayed. I prayed hard. I beseeched the Lord to spare my life.
After tethering me to the overhead cable, the guide said, "Okay, just step up to the edge and step off."
I studied his face. He was serious. My eyebrows rose. He smiled, sensing my terror, and in his cool Caribbean accent, he said, "You got dis, Sista. Step up. Step off."
"Let me get this straight," I said to him. "You want me to voluntarily hurl myself off the edge of this towering platform?"
He nodded, smiling. Of course, he was handsome and charming. It was strategic. Who else better to convince you to step off the edge of a tower? They aren't going to station some ugly schlub at the post, now are they? Not when it is the last face you may ever see.
"How about I stand near unto the edge and close my eyes, and you shove me off the edge when I'm least expecting it."
He flashed a knowing smile. "Well, sure. I could. But is that how you really want to go down?"
Dang. The charismatic Caribbean dude had to wax philosophical.
I was about to turn 52. I was taking chances with my writing - throwing literary caution to the wind. It seemed it was time to step to the edge. I mustered my gumption. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I flung my body off that tower and prayed the well-worn cable would zip my harnessed body safely down the mountain.
There were seven zip lines. I had to step off seven times.
I lived to tell the tale.
On my way back to the ship, there was a newfound clarity. Two years past the big 5-0 was too much time taken to accomplish a goal. I had been inching my way ever so slowly toward the edge. I'd been loitering on the perimeter of bravery. I'm on the fast track to AARP and cheap movie tickets and senior-sized meals. There is no time to waste. It was time for stepping off the edge, for taking some calculated risks, and seeing where flinging myself into the unknown would take me.
So, here I am, with my toes perilously lined up at a metaphorical edge. I'm taking a leap of faith. I'm stepping off.
I'm nudging my little darlings off my laptop screen and into the crowded realms of Amazon. I'm talking e-books and paperbacks with Prime two-day shipping, although the jungles of the Amazon are no less dangerous or terrifying a place to lay bare my characters.
Honestly, I don't have grandiose visions for my stories. My name will never appear on a "Let's Make You Feel Bad About Yourself by Listing Famous People Who Accomplished Boat Loads More Than You Have By The Time They Were Your Age" birthday feed. But there is a need pulsing in my chest. The need for the checkmark on my To-Do List. The need to hear the heavy and satisfying plink of the drop in my bucket. The feeling that I did what I set out to do before I die.
I'm stepping up. I'm stepping off. I never needed the shove from anyone but myself, but I had to go through the process to figure that out.
Maybe we aren't so different. Maybe you have an edge that needs stepping up to, too. You don't need the handsome Caribbean zip line guide to talk you off the edge. You don't need him to shove you off.
You got dis. Step to the edge. Step off. That's the way you want it to go down. Trust me - the hurling toward the bottom only lasts for a moment, and then you fly.
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