When we learned to walk, was it because we saw someone walk first? Towering adults taking longer steps than our heights. Or did it just one day make sense to stand, the bones having shifted and sealed, the muscles grown and nourished, all had fallen into place such that standing, taking a step, was the only thing that made sense to do?
I don’t remember learning to walk. But my mother has told me stories of my fearless climbing and jumping. The chases I led her on in fields open and wide, seemingly never-ending. I wonder if I ever thought about where I was to end up next. What lived at the end of the fields?
Have you ever been afraid to walk into a door? Forgetting for a moment that you’ve spent years mastering your gait. Almost like handwriting, no one walks the same. I drift and stomp too hard. I walk fast because my stride is far. Yet I’ve stood frozen at a door I knew was unlocked.
Do you knock on the door? Do you sit outside waiting for it to open first?
When you learned to walk, were you afraid? Afraid to stand up, wondering if you were going to fall?
When the lights shine around the door and you stand there tapping your foot, do you wonder if the kid inside of you would be afraid to open the door? For wouldn’t it just be taking another step, learning again and again, how things go?
Being so afraid to the point of suspension; your mind therefore closed even though the door begs to open. Lift the fear from your shoulders and replace it with hope, and you will learn to walk again, not wondering if you will fall, but knowing you will get back up. Turn the handle and kick the door wide open. Step forward not knowing what’s next. But knowing you have learned to walk long ago.
Hold the hand of the kid you used to be, and let them teach you again, and again, and again. ▲
