The Choice

At three o’clock on an Arizona August afternoon, this is what I think about. It works. I hear the surf rolling in, sound upon sound, repeating its invitation: don’t stop at ankle depth. Dive in. Refreshment is the reward for taking the plunge.

A sea bird flies very low over the water, looks directly at me, winks and calls out: Fly. Don’t just stand there. Renewal is the reward for attempting.

A friendly wind whispers in my ear…what are you wating for? Let me give you a little push. Relax. Risk it.

And then, in my mind picture, an old friend stands beside me. “Come on…I’ll go with you…follow me.” He takes several steps into the surf, looks back, extends his hand, smiles, and I know. I recognize my reluctance, the hesitancy that holds me back. It’s the choice.

Here or there. Dry or dripping wet. Safe, secure…ankle depth or all of me?

It’s the choice, isn’t it.

Always the choice.