It's O Week

It's O week in Kindergarten.  This creates trouble.  Because when your assignment is "come up with a word that starts with O," and your own rule requires you to not use a word that your classmates have already shared....well, you can see where we're going.  


So we burned through oval, ovoid, ocelot, orangutan, orange, octagon, oak, oatmeal....on and on and on and on. 


We settled on ostrich.  


This was a compromise, as someone, he was certain, had already shared about the lovable ostrich.  He made a concession and we proceeded.  Picture drawn.  Word guess-spelled out on the paper.  Done. 


Except he's six.  So he's rarely done with anything when I think he ought to be.  


As I'm clearing breakfast dishes away this morning, he says, "What if the ostrich wants to fly?  I know they can't, but what if one day one wants to fly anyway?"


I hate to admit it, but I've installed a certain filter on my ears.  I might hear all of what my kids say, buy I listen to only a portion.  It's some sort of mom-filter for self-preservation, I'm sure.  If I had to take in all they said, every one of them, every day, I'd surely perish.  Or my head would explode.  Ears can't absorb that much sound and brains can't process all that information, most of it -- in a house of boys -- having to do with bodily functions and superheroes.


So I'm guilty, as charged.  Only some of what they say summons my senses.


This was one.  


PAY ATTENTION.  INCOMING.  WAKE UP.  ALERT. 


What if you want to fly when everything says you can't?  What if your body's not designed for it?  What if your social circle devoutly believes in its inability to fly, no questions asked?  They devoutly believe and want you to pray at that altar, too?  What then?


Wait for a friend.  One that has the know-how.  They always appear.  They'll lead the way.    


We've been sick, really sick, in this house.  It's been endless.  That's for another post, one on endurance.


But last week there was a pleasant surprise in the midst of all that illness.  A mysterious envelope in the mail.  Its contents mysterious as well.  It looked like this:

Puzzling.  Pleasantly.  A puzzle letter...picture on one side, letter on the other. 

Put it together and you get this. 

Which can only mean one thing.  It's from my friend, Missy.  Last year, out of the middle of nowhere, Missy invited me along for a 'small' hike.  In gallant fashion, we two single moms left our gaggle of boys behind, packed our gear, and headed out one afternoon.  We got to the park in the early evening, crashed a campsite for a few hours (yes, I found a penny on my way to the bathroom in the pitch black of night), started out before dawn on the hike of a lifetime.  One day, out and back.... 

...to climb this behemoth.  It was a bold venture.  

And yet, by midday, here we were...that's really us.  Out there on the diving board.  Those little specks.

The lessons of the day were many for me.  So much of my life is about endurance in the face of challenge and overcoming my beliefs about limitations in order to access the Universe's limitless bounty.  Through the miles and miles of hiking, the altitude gain, the physical fatigue I was blessed to move past those ideas of what I thought I could do, achieve, and be and catch a glimpse of what was really available to me.  

I'm at one of those places again these days where I'm standing on the precipice.  I know I'm on the path to that certain kind of freedom that comes from surrender and letting go.  That freedom that comes from uncovering and honoring my inner truths.  That freedom that comes from actively practicing faith.  I know the freedom I'm looking for is the one found by boldly jumping off into the abyss.  

And so, in answer to my sweet six-year-old's question this morning...if you want to fly and you can't...

...you skydive.