Leap and the (Fish)Nets Appear
Story
Music always called to me. I understood its creative potency intuitively, and I had a humble gift for it. Many have told me my songs create a safe and healing space, which I find a bit ironic because performing always triggered epic stage fright and auditions were a nightmare. Although I usually managed to deliver during public performances, the risk of crashing and burning was a living thing. I felt a bit like the sailors of Greek mythology who were lured by the sirens’ songs only to wreck their ships on the rocky isles.
Music always called to me. I understood its creative potency intuitively, and I had a humble gift for it. Many have told me my songs create a safe and healing space, which I find a bit ironic because performing always triggered epic stage fright and auditions were a nightmare. Although I usually managed to deliver during public performances, the risk of crashing and burning was a living thing. I felt a bit like the sailors of Greek mythology who were lured by the sirens’ songs only to wreck their ships on the rocky isles.
I remember one performance vividly. It was my senior year in high school, and I’d been selected to sing the Homecoming theme song in front of the school assembly (“You Light Up My Life”). This choice was made by a vote, much to the dismay of my chorus teacher who did not think I could do it. When the fated day arrived and the musical intro began, fear won and I fumbled my entry. I had to stop the pianist and start over; but in that humiliating moment, something rose in me and I connected with the song in a way that garnered me a standing ovation from my peers and the respect of my chorus teacher.
This breakthrough moment fueled my burning passion to bring down the fear barrier permanently. I chipped away at it for the next 30 years, enduring many horrible auditions, delivering both brave and tentative performances, and making many friends and memories along the way.
My son was the catalyst for my final breakthrough. In a twist of karmic destiny, David was born with a gorgeous singing voice. (I swear, we make secret deals with our children before they incarnate, asking them to embody the parts of ourselves that we most struggle to accept.) He decided to pursue his love of musical theatre, and I found one of the best vocal teachers in Wisconsin to nurture his burgeoning talent. I sat in on David’s lessons and watched him shine in his first master class recital…all while I secretly yearned. You see, I knew I should be up there too.
There finally came moment where, amidst tears and hiccups, I proclaimed out loud on a lonely country road the words that broke the spell holding me captive: “I have to heal this trauma around using my voice. If I get the chance, I will step through whatever door opens, no matter what it takes, no matter how scared I am, no matter what happens after; in fact I don’t care what happens (okay, I actually care a lot, but I’m not going to let that stop me), because I have to shift this in this lifetime or I will feel nothing but regret.”
Melodramatic? Maybe, but I was totally sincere. I never shared this declaration with anyone, yet that following Christmas my husband gave me voice lessons. He gave me seven lessons we could not easily afford (which eventually grew into three years of lessons) with David’s amazing teacher. It was the best and most terrifying gift I’d ever received.
My son, bless him, joined me for my first lesson. He sat there in the room and cheered me on while I shook and cried my way through the hour. I sounded like a choked chicken and babbled, “This is what happens when you bury your dreams. You end up in mid-life having a break-down in front of your kid. It isn’t pretty. Don’t ever let it come to this!”
My teacher hugged me and proclaimed I was now his new pet project. He would have taught me anyway, he said, for the sheer joy of celebrating our friendship; but after hearing me sing he thought I actually had potential. Then he warned me, “No student of mine with actual potential will take lessons from me and not audition for shows.”
This meant I would be auditioning for top notch regional productions. They flew in Broadway stars for the leads. To be cast in such a show, I would have to bridge my epic vocal break, effectively act a song, put together a resume with a headshot, and perform like a professional in front of a team of directors. (Oh. Dear. God.)
I shared this fate with my buddy Joe during a visit to Colorado. Joe worked on a child peace project with me there, and he was always my cheerleader. When I told Joe about the upcoming auditions, he pulled me in front of a full-length mirror and told me to look at myself and own my brilliance. To this day I still hear, “Do I have to drag you to the mirror?” whenever I am diminishing myself. Joe is a kick. You would love him...unless you are in front of the mirror.
Over the next few months I prepared for my first audition. It was for a show I was not suited for, but my voice teacher wanted me to audition anyway as it would give me a chance to practice. He would also then see if I could deliver the goods.
The dreaded date of my test audition finally arrived. David came with me for support, and I regaled him with years of audition horror stories while driving to the event. My stories were stunning. He was suitably impressed.
He then glanced over at me with a twinkle, and said, looking sly, “Mom, you need to know my audition secret. You know the boxers I have showing Stewie from Family Guy partying down? Well those are my audition underwear. Whenever I audition, I have a party going on in my pants.” (He seriously said this to me.) “These underpants are my secret reminder that I am auditioning for myself, strictly for the fun of it. The directors will do what they do. I have no control over that. All I can do is sing for myself and enjoy every bit of the adventure.” (Brilliant! I was now the one who was impressed.)
When my moment of destiny arrived, I pulled up my big girl panties and sang for the joy of it as best as I was able. It was, by far and away, my best audition ever!
This breakthrough moment fueled my burning passion to bring down the fear barrier permanently. I chipped away at it for the next 30 years, enduring many horrible auditions, delivering both brave and tentative performances, and making many friends and memories along the way.
My son was the catalyst for my final breakthrough. In a twist of karmic destiny, David was born with a gorgeous singing voice. (I swear, we make secret deals with our children before they incarnate, asking them to embody the parts of ourselves that we most struggle to accept.) He decided to pursue his love of musical theatre, and I found one of the best vocal teachers in Wisconsin to nurture his burgeoning talent. I sat in on David’s lessons and watched him shine in his first master class recital…all while I secretly yearned. You see, I knew I should be up there too.
There finally came moment where, amidst tears and hiccups, I proclaimed out loud on a lonely country road the words that broke the spell holding me captive: “I have to heal this trauma around using my voice. If I get the chance, I will step through whatever door opens, no matter what it takes, no matter how scared I am, no matter what happens after; in fact I don’t care what happens (okay, I actually care a lot, but I’m not going to let that stop me), because I have to shift this in this lifetime or I will feel nothing but regret.”
Melodramatic? Maybe, but I was totally sincere. I never shared this declaration with anyone, yet that following Christmas my husband gave me voice lessons. He gave me seven lessons we could not easily afford (which eventually grew into three years of lessons) with David’s amazing teacher. It was the best and most terrifying gift I’d ever received.
My son, bless him, joined me for my first lesson. He sat there in the room and cheered me on while I shook and cried my way through the hour. I sounded like a choked chicken and babbled, “This is what happens when you bury your dreams. You end up in mid-life having a break-down in front of your kid. It isn’t pretty. Don’t ever let it come to this!”
My teacher hugged me and proclaimed I was now his new pet project. He would have taught me anyway, he said, for the sheer joy of celebrating our friendship; but after hearing me sing he thought I actually had potential. Then he warned me, “No student of mine with actual potential will take lessons from me and not audition for shows.”
This meant I would be auditioning for top notch regional productions. They flew in Broadway stars for the leads. To be cast in such a show, I would have to bridge my epic vocal break, effectively act a song, put together a resume with a headshot, and perform like a professional in front of a team of directors. (Oh. Dear. God.)
I shared this fate with my buddy Joe during a visit to Colorado. Joe worked on a child peace project with me there, and he was always my cheerleader. When I told Joe about the upcoming auditions, he pulled me in front of a full-length mirror and told me to look at myself and own my brilliance. To this day I still hear, “Do I have to drag you to the mirror?” whenever I am diminishing myself. Joe is a kick. You would love him...unless you are in front of the mirror.
Over the next few months I prepared for my first audition. It was for a show I was not suited for, but my voice teacher wanted me to audition anyway as it would give me a chance to practice. He would also then see if I could deliver the goods.
The dreaded date of my test audition finally arrived. David came with me for support, and I regaled him with years of audition horror stories while driving to the event. My stories were stunning. He was suitably impressed.
He then glanced over at me with a twinkle, and said, looking sly, “Mom, you need to know my audition secret. You know the boxers I have showing Stewie from Family Guy partying down? Well those are my audition underwear. Whenever I audition, I have a party going on in my pants.” (He seriously said this to me.) “These underpants are my secret reminder that I am auditioning for myself, strictly for the fun of it. The directors will do what they do. I have no control over that. All I can do is sing for myself and enjoy every bit of the adventure.” (Brilliant! I was now the one who was impressed.)
When my moment of destiny arrived, I pulled up my big girl panties and sang for the joy of it as best as I was able. It was, by far and away, my best audition ever!
On the way home, my son confessed he had listened outside the door, and he told me (I love this part), “You are the bravest person I know.” I still treasure those words to this day.
My teacher thought my progress showed promise, so we began to prepare for a real audition for the company’s next show, Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. Someone famous was going to play one of the male leads. The local press had been invited to watch the auditions. When panic tickled at the edges, David teased me by saying this made the adventure even better. Ugh.
I showed up to the auditions with my party panties firmly in place, and miracle of miracles, I was cast…in an actual role…as a chain-smoking hard ass (those who know me find this vastly amusing)…a chain-smoking hard-ass with a solo and a tap number!
On opening night, I stood in the wings sweating bullets. The orchestra (I was about to sing with an orchestra!) began to play my introduction. It was one of those moments when you realize you actually got the very thing you were begging for and you wonder what the hell you were thinking!
My cue landed, I rushed out, sang my bad-ass song in a smokey alto in front of an audience pushing 1,000. I did my tap routine. It was a completely surreal blur. I barely remember anything except the glare of the lights (but evidently my performance was acceptable as I got a good review in the paper).
I rushed off stage, gleeful to have survived, and sought out David to celebrate as he was also in the show. I expected to find him in the dressing rooms but was told he was hiding somewhere backstage where there were no speakers because he was too nervous to listen! (I find this hysterical, and payback for all the performances of his that I endured as a nervous mother.) I tracked him down for my victory hug. It was a sweet moment indeed.
My teacher thought my progress showed promise, so we began to prepare for a real audition for the company’s next show, Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. Someone famous was going to play one of the male leads. The local press had been invited to watch the auditions. When panic tickled at the edges, David teased me by saying this made the adventure even better. Ugh.
I showed up to the auditions with my party panties firmly in place, and miracle of miracles, I was cast…in an actual role…as a chain-smoking hard ass (those who know me find this vastly amusing)…a chain-smoking hard-ass with a solo and a tap number!
On opening night, I stood in the wings sweating bullets. The orchestra (I was about to sing with an orchestra!) began to play my introduction. It was one of those moments when you realize you actually got the very thing you were begging for and you wonder what the hell you were thinking!
My cue landed, I rushed out, sang my bad-ass song in a smokey alto in front of an audience pushing 1,000. I did my tap routine. It was a completely surreal blur. I barely remember anything except the glare of the lights (but evidently my performance was acceptable as I got a good review in the paper).
I rushed off stage, gleeful to have survived, and sought out David to celebrate as he was also in the show. I expected to find him in the dressing rooms but was told he was hiding somewhere backstage where there were no speakers because he was too nervous to listen! (I find this hysterical, and payback for all the performances of his that I endured as a nervous mother.) I tracked him down for my victory hug. It was a sweet moment indeed.
What Happened Next
Over the next several years I was cast in a few more shows, while my son followed his passion to New York City where he was studying musical theatre.
One day, I arrived at my lesson and my voice teacher announced, “We are doing Evita this summer.” I got the ‘you ARE auditioning' look.
I looked back. The chorus members dance in Evita. Short of my infamous tap number, I had not truly danced in almost 30 years. Who was he kidding?
After much tip-toeing around the issue, I finally gave in and went to the audition. I knew I had nothing to lose but my pride, so I sang my bit (‘cause I’m a pro at this by now, right?), learned the dance routine with a big group (yup, that was me hiding in the back) and figured that was the end of it. I was now free.
As I was putting on my coat, the choreographer’s assistant pulled me aside and whispered that I was being called back for the second dance call.
I stared at him thinking, “Seriously? You are going to make me do the call-back? My original humiliation was not enough?? SERIOUSLY???” (I may have actually said some of that with my outside voice.)
He laughed and told me, “We thought you were fun to watch!”
Something inside me died more than a little, and my stomach rolled over as I realized he was serious. I would actually be dancing in the call-back. Where was my son when I needed him for moral support? Oh, yeah, in New York City following his $@&*%# dream.
In dread, I returned to the studio and scanned the room. Every other dancer present was approximately 25 years old...and perky…in all the ways that 25-year-olds are perky. I used to to be perky when I was 25...25 years ago.
The choreographer, who lived in Atlanta, was set up to watch via a video call. The other directors were all seated behind “the table.” My voice teacher, who would be the musical director for the show, was there as well. I couldn’t look at him. I knew he was grinning at me as the assistant choreographer gave us the instructions. We were to do leaps across the room so “Atlanta” could see our style and technical ability.
I had no technical ability, so I got in the back of the line in order to copy the dancers in front of me. I studied each one as they leapt across the room, taking mental notes. When it was my turn, those notes floated completely out of my terrified little brain. All that remained was a vague memory of a leap I once did in dance class in 1979, which I performed enthusiastically. I no doubt dazzled the directors with my stunning display.
After this success, I was feeling pretty cocky until the cherubic assistant announced that the choreographer wanted to see one more round of leaping, again leaper’s choice. All cockiness faded.
The dancers were now comparing notes. “What leap shall I do?” They were tossing about technical terms like experts.
I had no terms. I had one leap and they just saw it. That was IT! I was completely out of leaps. The line in front of me was getting shorter. It was almost my turn. What was I going to do???
An idea stuck like a bolt of lightning. “You know a leap! You had years of practice doing this leap as a kid. You did it all over the back yard. Leap like a deer!”
So I gathered my giggling self together (Oh God Oh God Oh God) and leapt across the stage like a freakin’ deer. My inner 6-year-old just took over. “You said I was fun to watch...well take this! HA Ha hA ha HA!!!” There was giggling (probably not just by me).
I left feeling euphoric. This whole ordeal could not have been more humiliating, yet I rose to the occasion with a playful sass I did not know I possessed.
And I was cast.
Granted, I was not one of the premier dancers (thank goodness), but I was a dancer none the less. I had to learn hard choreography that challenged me on every level. I had to buy new dance shoes and fishnet stockings. And the best part of all, the sweetest of the sweet, was that my son was later called in from New York to be in the show as well.
One night at rehearsal, the choreographer actually paired me with my kiddo for a lift, not knowing we were mother and son. There was chuckling amongst the cast, which tipped off the choreographer, who eventually split us up, but I got a delightful laugh out of the whole thing and a picture by the show’s photographer of me being held in my boy’s arms. Twas a moment to remember. I keep it tucked away in my heart.
Opening night finally arrived and I stood backstage next to my son, awaiting the big dance number. In the blue glow of the stage lights, I saw him grin at me and sheer joy filled my heart. I could never have planned this moment, but my inner child delivered it to me. “Leap,” she said. “Leap, and the fishnets will appear!” When I did, she carried me past my fear of failure, far beyond my comfort zone; and here I was, having a magical moment few mom’s have, dancing on stage along side her son in a high caliber production. It just doesn't get much more liberating than that.
Over the next several years I was cast in a few more shows, while my son followed his passion to New York City where he was studying musical theatre.
One day, I arrived at my lesson and my voice teacher announced, “We are doing Evita this summer.” I got the ‘you ARE auditioning' look.
I looked back. The chorus members dance in Evita. Short of my infamous tap number, I had not truly danced in almost 30 years. Who was he kidding?
After much tip-toeing around the issue, I finally gave in and went to the audition. I knew I had nothing to lose but my pride, so I sang my bit (‘cause I’m a pro at this by now, right?), learned the dance routine with a big group (yup, that was me hiding in the back) and figured that was the end of it. I was now free.
As I was putting on my coat, the choreographer’s assistant pulled me aside and whispered that I was being called back for the second dance call.
I stared at him thinking, “Seriously? You are going to make me do the call-back? My original humiliation was not enough?? SERIOUSLY???” (I may have actually said some of that with my outside voice.)
He laughed and told me, “We thought you were fun to watch!”
Something inside me died more than a little, and my stomach rolled over as I realized he was serious. I would actually be dancing in the call-back. Where was my son when I needed him for moral support? Oh, yeah, in New York City following his $@&*%# dream.
In dread, I returned to the studio and scanned the room. Every other dancer present was approximately 25 years old...and perky…in all the ways that 25-year-olds are perky. I used to to be perky when I was 25...25 years ago.
The choreographer, who lived in Atlanta, was set up to watch via a video call. The other directors were all seated behind “the table.” My voice teacher, who would be the musical director for the show, was there as well. I couldn’t look at him. I knew he was grinning at me as the assistant choreographer gave us the instructions. We were to do leaps across the room so “Atlanta” could see our style and technical ability.
I had no technical ability, so I got in the back of the line in order to copy the dancers in front of me. I studied each one as they leapt across the room, taking mental notes. When it was my turn, those notes floated completely out of my terrified little brain. All that remained was a vague memory of a leap I once did in dance class in 1979, which I performed enthusiastically. I no doubt dazzled the directors with my stunning display.
After this success, I was feeling pretty cocky until the cherubic assistant announced that the choreographer wanted to see one more round of leaping, again leaper’s choice. All cockiness faded.
The dancers were now comparing notes. “What leap shall I do?” They were tossing about technical terms like experts.
I had no terms. I had one leap and they just saw it. That was IT! I was completely out of leaps. The line in front of me was getting shorter. It was almost my turn. What was I going to do???
An idea stuck like a bolt of lightning. “You know a leap! You had years of practice doing this leap as a kid. You did it all over the back yard. Leap like a deer!”
So I gathered my giggling self together (Oh God Oh God Oh God) and leapt across the stage like a freakin’ deer. My inner 6-year-old just took over. “You said I was fun to watch...well take this! HA Ha hA ha HA!!!” There was giggling (probably not just by me).
I left feeling euphoric. This whole ordeal could not have been more humiliating, yet I rose to the occasion with a playful sass I did not know I possessed.
And I was cast.
Granted, I was not one of the premier dancers (thank goodness), but I was a dancer none the less. I had to learn hard choreography that challenged me on every level. I had to buy new dance shoes and fishnet stockings. And the best part of all, the sweetest of the sweet, was that my son was later called in from New York to be in the show as well.
One night at rehearsal, the choreographer actually paired me with my kiddo for a lift, not knowing we were mother and son. There was chuckling amongst the cast, which tipped off the choreographer, who eventually split us up, but I got a delightful laugh out of the whole thing and a picture by the show’s photographer of me being held in my boy’s arms. Twas a moment to remember. I keep it tucked away in my heart.
Opening night finally arrived and I stood backstage next to my son, awaiting the big dance number. In the blue glow of the stage lights, I saw him grin at me and sheer joy filled my heart. I could never have planned this moment, but my inner child delivered it to me. “Leap,” she said. “Leap, and the fishnets will appear!” When I did, she carried me past my fear of failure, far beyond my comfort zone; and here I was, having a magical moment few mom’s have, dancing on stage along side her son in a high caliber production. It just doesn't get much more liberating than that.
Insights
My dream of music was a golden shining star. Early on, when fear gripped me, the though of performing as a semi-professional was so impractical to my mind that it had turned into a type of hopium. I didn’t want to tarnish its glow with little things like public humiliation or realizing I didn’t have the talent to succeed. Bringing this dream to life meant it had to get dirty. If I kept the dream a dream, l could still run to its untarnished beauty and find a type of pale respite there, but it would never be a real experience. The process of making my dream real meant I had to face my fears, hit my walls, and try uncomfortable things.
My leap into regional theatre showed me that there is a very big difference between telling myself “I am this now” versus “I hope I can be that someday.” These two thoughts attract energy differntly. My success in my auditions came because I acted in a way that felt authentic and I committed to it, ridiculous as it may have appeared to everyone else. That authenticity already existed inside me and I was commanding my energy to align with it. Once I made the decision to leap, I did not hesitate or judge my progress, nor could I know, or be worried about what would happen next. I just leapt and had fun doing it.
What I didn't yet realize was how this playful interlude was preparing me for a much scarier leap into a new life. I remember the day when I knew my musical interlude was over. I was standing back stage in my first opera, The Flying Dutchman, awaiting my cue to go on with the chorus, and I suddenly intuited this would be my last production. I didn’t want to know this, because it meant I had to face the music in my marriage. Singing had opened my voice, and it was now time to speak my truth. I was not looking forward to this.
My marriage had served my soul evolution in many ways, but my soul had been nudging me for some time now that I had outgrown the limitations inherent in this partnership. Once I knew this, I could not "unknow" it and the clock started ticking. I had to align my actions with this knowing and was not yet sure how to do it. I depended upon my marriage for survival, so leaving it would require quite a leap of faith.
Such a leap is not a frivolous or impulsive action. I was not running away from something I didn’t want to face. My husband had been through counseling, and I had been through my own independently. Bringing our marriage to an honorable closure was a necessary action catalyzed by a truth I knew in my bones. Beyond all logic, it was a step I had to take to love myself better, and this scared me because I knew it was going to change everything.
Since big leaps into new truths are hard, we are usually given a window of grace to align and get the job done. I was give about two years to take small steps in speaking my truth and prepare my strength for what would be required of me on the other side of the leap. I recognized when that window of grace was closing, and I recognized when grace provided the opportunity.
If we don't leap during the window we are given, it isn't pretty. I've seen how those dynamics play out in other people's lives. Usually something dramatic happens that makes things much more painful and simultaneously more difficult to accomplish the leap. I've learned that when I have have to jump over a fence, it is best not to make a half-assed attempt or a fence picket can end up in a very uncomfortable place. Ironically, we make partial leaps when we are afraid of pain. However, the goal of evolution is not to escape pain but to align with inner truth. While "denial" may have a great view of the pyramids, it isn't a place to live for the long term, and a fence post is not a comfortable place to sit.
My dream of music was a golden shining star. Early on, when fear gripped me, the though of performing as a semi-professional was so impractical to my mind that it had turned into a type of hopium. I didn’t want to tarnish its glow with little things like public humiliation or realizing I didn’t have the talent to succeed. Bringing this dream to life meant it had to get dirty. If I kept the dream a dream, l could still run to its untarnished beauty and find a type of pale respite there, but it would never be a real experience. The process of making my dream real meant I had to face my fears, hit my walls, and try uncomfortable things.
My leap into regional theatre showed me that there is a very big difference between telling myself “I am this now” versus “I hope I can be that someday.” These two thoughts attract energy differntly. My success in my auditions came because I acted in a way that felt authentic and I committed to it, ridiculous as it may have appeared to everyone else. That authenticity already existed inside me and I was commanding my energy to align with it. Once I made the decision to leap, I did not hesitate or judge my progress, nor could I know, or be worried about what would happen next. I just leapt and had fun doing it.
What I didn't yet realize was how this playful interlude was preparing me for a much scarier leap into a new life. I remember the day when I knew my musical interlude was over. I was standing back stage in my first opera, The Flying Dutchman, awaiting my cue to go on with the chorus, and I suddenly intuited this would be my last production. I didn’t want to know this, because it meant I had to face the music in my marriage. Singing had opened my voice, and it was now time to speak my truth. I was not looking forward to this.
My marriage had served my soul evolution in many ways, but my soul had been nudging me for some time now that I had outgrown the limitations inherent in this partnership. Once I knew this, I could not "unknow" it and the clock started ticking. I had to align my actions with this knowing and was not yet sure how to do it. I depended upon my marriage for survival, so leaving it would require quite a leap of faith.
Such a leap is not a frivolous or impulsive action. I was not running away from something I didn’t want to face. My husband had been through counseling, and I had been through my own independently. Bringing our marriage to an honorable closure was a necessary action catalyzed by a truth I knew in my bones. Beyond all logic, it was a step I had to take to love myself better, and this scared me because I knew it was going to change everything.
Since big leaps into new truths are hard, we are usually given a window of grace to align and get the job done. I was give about two years to take small steps in speaking my truth and prepare my strength for what would be required of me on the other side of the leap. I recognized when that window of grace was closing, and I recognized when grace provided the opportunity.
If we don't leap during the window we are given, it isn't pretty. I've seen how those dynamics play out in other people's lives. Usually something dramatic happens that makes things much more painful and simultaneously more difficult to accomplish the leap. I've learned that when I have have to jump over a fence, it is best not to make a half-assed attempt or a fence picket can end up in a very uncomfortable place. Ironically, we make partial leaps when we are afraid of pain. However, the goal of evolution is not to escape pain but to align with inner truth. While "denial" may have a great view of the pyramids, it isn't a place to live for the long term, and a fence post is not a comfortable place to sit.
Unlike a partial leap, creating a temporary landing pad on the other side of the fence may be a necessary strategy. Landing pads provide a safe space to gather ourselves and regroup within our own energy before leaping again into a truly new reality. I needed just such a landing pad after leaving my marriage. For three months I moved in with my mother, and this allowed me to sort through my possessions in a nurturing environment and come to terms with my initial waves of grief and assess my potentials before making choices. This was a great act of self-love.
When we are in a reactionary state we often think, "I can escape this pain by running here!" (to this person, to this place, to this other activity). You may have heard of the geographical cure? “I will just go there! It will all be better once I get there!” Unfortunately, when we run away from our problems our baggage always comes with us. Wherever you go, there you are. A real leap into the new is not running away from something, it is running toward yourself, and this requires great courage.
Reacting is a pre-programmed behavior that protects old pain points and imprints. Responding is an organic and original act that cannot be predicted or compelled, and it usually requires a healed point of perspective. Responses emerge intuitively from a place of wisdom and compassion within us and they are always appropriate even when they surprise us with their novelty. Responses validate our wholeness even as they shatter our preconceptions. They are grounded in compassion and emerge from our true self.
When we are in a reactionary state we often think, "I can escape this pain by running here!" (to this person, to this place, to this other activity). You may have heard of the geographical cure? “I will just go there! It will all be better once I get there!” Unfortunately, when we run away from our problems our baggage always comes with us. Wherever you go, there you are. A real leap into the new is not running away from something, it is running toward yourself, and this requires great courage.
Reacting is a pre-programmed behavior that protects old pain points and imprints. Responding is an organic and original act that cannot be predicted or compelled, and it usually requires a healed point of perspective. Responses emerge intuitively from a place of wisdom and compassion within us and they are always appropriate even when they surprise us with their novelty. Responses validate our wholeness even as they shatter our preconceptions. They are grounded in compassion and emerge from our true self.
Conclusion
I heard somewhere that life is like a looping track. We follow a leader, or a specific way of doing something for as long as it supports us, but there comes a time when we must leap into a new identity and take the leadership role. If we don’t leap, the track loops around and we play the old role yet again, though perhaps a slightly wiser version of it. It is easy to become addicted to playing familiar roles and following other leaders because we feel vulnerable off the track.
There came a day for me when the pain of looping became unbearable. I felt a deep completion with what had gone before. My mind resisted knowing this, because not only was a chapter ending, but an entire book was closing to make way for something new. My life had prepared me to be a good wife and mother, but this leap took me into a vast uncharted ocean. It was at this time that my snorkeling friend sent me the picture reminding me that I had to let go of the anchor line in order to swim. Since I was not a great swimmer, I would need to create compassion for imperfection and a safe space to discover who I was by revealing what I was no longer. My unsuccessful attempts were not failures; they were signs pointing to higher potentials.
There is a wonderful song by Guy Clark called “The Cape.” The lyric describes a young boy who knows he can fly, and he climbs up to the roof of the garage with a flour sack cape tied around his neck to put his faith to the test. He believes he is magical, and throughout his life, this spirit of commitment to his greater truth and self-love becomes the superhero cape that makes his dreams come true.
My superhero cape emerged slowly through small acts of courage and commitment. Just like in my audition when I leapt like a deer, each leap that followed moved me forward. My energy continuously rearranged, creating the physics that eventually sustained a new life as an unmarried woman.
In the end, the net that caught me was not one that I saw coming when I leapt. What I thought would catch me could not, because the act of leaping out of my marriage had profoundly changed me. I no longer resonated with my anticipated net. However, the right thing appeared at the right time when I least expected it. It was the perfect net, but I had to be ready to receive it, and that took some healing time and a lot of self-love.
I heard somewhere that life is like a looping track. We follow a leader, or a specific way of doing something for as long as it supports us, but there comes a time when we must leap into a new identity and take the leadership role. If we don’t leap, the track loops around and we play the old role yet again, though perhaps a slightly wiser version of it. It is easy to become addicted to playing familiar roles and following other leaders because we feel vulnerable off the track.
There came a day for me when the pain of looping became unbearable. I felt a deep completion with what had gone before. My mind resisted knowing this, because not only was a chapter ending, but an entire book was closing to make way for something new. My life had prepared me to be a good wife and mother, but this leap took me into a vast uncharted ocean. It was at this time that my snorkeling friend sent me the picture reminding me that I had to let go of the anchor line in order to swim. Since I was not a great swimmer, I would need to create compassion for imperfection and a safe space to discover who I was by revealing what I was no longer. My unsuccessful attempts were not failures; they were signs pointing to higher potentials.
There is a wonderful song by Guy Clark called “The Cape.” The lyric describes a young boy who knows he can fly, and he climbs up to the roof of the garage with a flour sack cape tied around his neck to put his faith to the test. He believes he is magical, and throughout his life, this spirit of commitment to his greater truth and self-love becomes the superhero cape that makes his dreams come true.
My superhero cape emerged slowly through small acts of courage and commitment. Just like in my audition when I leapt like a deer, each leap that followed moved me forward. My energy continuously rearranged, creating the physics that eventually sustained a new life as an unmarried woman.
In the end, the net that caught me was not one that I saw coming when I leapt. What I thought would catch me could not, because the act of leaping out of my marriage had profoundly changed me. I no longer resonated with my anticipated net. However, the right thing appeared at the right time when I least expected it. It was the perfect net, but I had to be ready to receive it, and that took some healing time and a lot of self-love.
Portal Perspective - If we leap, the net will appear, but only when we are in the air.
Key to Success - It is best to commit when a leap is required. (A partial leap is a messy painful thing.)
Key to Success - It is best to commit when a leap is required. (A partial leap is a messy painful thing.)