Olympic Gifts

Talent belongs to God. Training comes from the robots within us. What makes the equally trained and the equally talented unequal is their humanity. Gabby Douglas' charisma, Missy Franklin's sweetness, and Michael Phelps' humility, qualities they sustain regardless of the results, sets them apart from their sometimes more qualified opponents, whose desire to win is palpable and gives away their ego (or their parents' and trainer's egos, in some cases).

Within my own talent and my own training, I have often felt that subtle tug-of-war between my ego's need to succeed and my gift's desire to serve. Before I step on stage, I have learned to ask of myself, May my ego step aside and make way for my gift. May I give what I am meant to give to this character on this stage for this audience. May I have the courage to serve, may I love every minute of it, and may I remember to be grateful for the experience in its entirety. 

I do not always grant my own request. I am sometimes too pleased with myself. I sometimes want to shine more than I want to give. But it is never long before I am humbled. On those moments, I look much like Jordyn Wieber, Viktoria Komova, and Ryan Lochte. Failure shatters poses.

Gifts are delicate. They shy away at the sight of arrogance. I must always keep myself in check, and practice catching it as it happens. If I have enough clarity and presence of mind, sometimes I can reverse it as it is happening. I am failing. I suck tonight. I am shmacting. It is hurting me to fail because I stepped on stage tonight wanting to succeed, wanting to be known as a great actor, wanting to be applauded.  I must let that go. It is not my job to succeed. It is my job to get out of my own way. I'm sorry, Talent. I tried to use you to make others see me, admire me, and love me. That is not your purpose. I accept failing tonight so that I may learn and grow for your sake. 

I watch the Olympics not only to cheer on the athletes I admire, but to study their humanity. I hope to absorb their clarity, their balance, and their drive. And I always applaud the courage it takes to remain humble, kind, and grateful after their consecutive wins.

A Leap

It takes me a year to get over a loss. Be it heartbreak, a death, the end of school, or a friend who moves away; the first year is always full of anniversaries. I keep a one-sentence-a-day-for-five-years journal, so every day I read what I was doing exactly one year prior. I do this deliberately, because I like to remember, relive, and re-feel. It's how I cherish what once was and let it go fully, without storing unnecessary sadness or pain.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the incredibly painful end to my last relationship. Yesterday meant I survived that first year after losing him and the following 365 days of remembering him.

But today was the 29th of February. Today did not exist last year. Today was new.

Take a leap, my phone reminded me at 9:00am today. Have I grown? Am I changed? Have I healed? Am I okay yet? 

I don't know. But I am here. My little heart is still beating fiercely, anxious to be filled with love again.

And on this day, after all those days of what was, there is nothing to remember.

It is almost midnight. Today provided a crack between this "year" and the next one. The one that is not full of anniversaries anymore. The one that might be full of possibilities. I am about to step into tomorrow.

No, not step. Leap.



Leap with me?