Rock-a-Bye, Bloggy….

Just a tiny little thing, nestled in a remote corner of the world, self-soothed by an ink binky.

It’s kind of nice being obscure. If I trip and fall, there aren’t many people to laugh and point.  Not that I’d blame them. Even though I manage to choke out an “Are you okay?”, I’m guilty of stifling giggles when I witness another person’s missteps. Why is someone falling so damn funny? As a wise observer once said, “You assume people are supposed to know how to walk”. Ah, the simplicity of it all.

Speaking of simple… I’ve been writing since I could first hold a crayon. It’s second nature to me. For some reason, displaying it in a formal environment for the general public has been fear-inducing. The butterflies-in-stomach, feels-like-you-swallowed-cotton variety. I needed some virtual pressure to get me going. Thankfully, I’ve been well trained in Shove Love.

I have a sister, about a year older than me. When I was learning to walk, she was already a seasoned pro. Watching me being egged on to do something she’d clearly mastered must have been frustrating for her. All that fanfare over nothing. The chorus of “C’mon honey, you can do it”, got to her, so she assisted me―with a firm push from the back. Of course instead of moving forward, I fell flat; turning on the waterworks amidst the pride-bruising guffaws. Interesting after affect: attention shifted to her, and I was highly motivated to get it back. I think more important than avoiding another face plant, I wanted to show my glib sib (and the family in audience) that I could accomplish the great feet (homonym intended).

This powering through became a habitual pattern. I’m not claiming abuse. Far from it.  I’m referring to being spurred on by my sister’s tenacity and if-you-don’t-do-it-I-have-ways-to-make-you posturing. From child to teen to young adult, I engaged in a running series of half-hearted or non-committal attempts, often succeeding only after my sister’s incentivized prodding, and usually through stubborn tears. While immersed in it, I felt like she was too tough on me. Now I realize her cleverly-packaged encouragement was truly a gift.

I don’t need her to propel me forward any more, at least not in the physical sense. The mental conditioning that resulted from years of her influential coercions makes me do things I might not feel ready to do. It pitches me into action, and inevitably, the realization that I can do it.  Sometimes that last inch is the greatest distance to travel.

Regardless of the stimuli, whether you are externally or internally driven―Just Do It. The worst that could happen is you fall on your face. Or ass. Everyone gets a chuckle, and you get up; more experienced, more determined, and that much closer to your mark.

Or… maybe your sister is sitting somewhere, erupting in maniacal har-de-hars. You were her human experiment, and your malleability has given her countless pleasure. She is the puppet master supreme, still pulling your strings…  Nah. She really does just want me to succeed.

Pinkitude:
“Success means doing the best we can with what we have.
It is the doing, not the getting; the trying, not the triumph.” ~ Zig Ziglar

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink