Beyond blisters

The days of herds and lemmings are long gone.

I am no fan of the bandwagon; neither do I relish the sweat of bushwhacking.  But the sweat is true to who I was made to be, and the bandwagon is just another rut in which to be mired.

I choose the only viable option in my eyes and desperately wish for a roadmap.

But there isn’t a roadmap.  There’s just this machete that I’ve been swinging like crazy, slashing a path through uncharted territory.  I’m tired, a little lonely, and I don’t know if this is the right direction.

And if I’m totally honest, I have to confess I feel afraid.

Afraid this will be the time I heard incorrectly.

Afraid this will be the time I missed it.

Afraid that this will be the time I overstepped.

Afraid that this will be the time I dreamed too big.

Afraid that this will be the time I over-promised.

Afraid that You aren’t going to back me up.

I hate fear.  I’m never happy when I’ve let it have the controlling vote.  I rarely see an excellent decision inspired by fear.  That said, over time I’ve made a few poor ones in the name of flipping fear the biggest bird I can muster, but at least I didn’t have to live with the idea that I chickened out and let fear win before I ever even tried.

Some day when I make peace with failure, I know I’m going to be really happy about that.

So fear lurks, and I feel it.  Big deal.

I tighten my grip and keep swinging, keep walking, keep pushing forward into the unknown.

If I go down, I go down swinging.