Reaching

"Make it the highest it will go, the VERY highest," he instructs.

"Okay," I say, hoisting the hoop just below the tipping point.
He shoots and scores on the first attempt. (The next eight attempts are a different story.) He doles out a few more instructions. "If I get it close and it's a great try, you give me one thumb up. If I make the shot, you give me two thumbs up. Okay? Make sure you do that, okay, Mom?"

I make sure. And I get the camera out of course. (And then almost drop the camera in my haste to give him two thumbs up.)

I look at my son. He's reaching.

::

"I going to try Caed's scooter," she announces. "Watch dis!"
I watch, snap a few shots. She's three. Not exactly the age of proficient scooter riding. It's a stretch, but she step-step-glides undaunted. I look at my daughter. She's reaching. (And making crazy faces to boot.)

I'm reaching too. (Reaching to make this post fit with Beth's You Capture theme of "Reaching", perhaps?) But really, I'm reaching.

If I ever expect to live a deliberate, deeply ever after sort of life, I have to reach up, out, over, beyond. (We certainly have our pick of prepositions here, and look, I ended the sentence with not one, but four of them.)

But really. If I ever expect to live the deep-down, true-to-the-core-of-me life, I'm going to have to reach.

Up. From whence comes my help.
Out. To grab the hands of those who join me in the journey.
Over. The obstacles real and imagined.
Beyond. My self imposed limitations.

So. (Deep breath.)
With un-hedged love and heart all in,
Trading flat feet for tippy-toes,
Here goes everything.

I'm reaching.

::

Join me?