You wish you had been honest.
Instead, there they wait. On the other side of the river, urging you
on. Between you and them is this log, a slippery bridge over a raging
gorge that barrels down from the mountains to the town below. If you
had been honest, and owned up to your fears of heights and crossing
these logs, you would not have all five of them staring at you, cursing
at you to get moving before the sun goes down. If you had been honest,
you would not be frozen here. Immobile. Honesty was never your strong
suit, anyway. You think of this as you inch your left foot forward.
There is green moss on this tree and the bark is crumbling. This tree
has been here for a long time. It has witnessed much in this world and
it cares not one whit about your fear. It is only there. Last night's
rains make the bridge even more treacherous. The path seems slick.
They're talking to themselves. One shakes a head and begins moving on.
The others look back at you, wave their hands and then, in disgust,
follow the path into the darkening woods. You remain, now alone, on the
other side of the gap, wondering how this will end. Will you retreat?
Or move forward? Your right foot crosses your left. You are leaving the
solid world behind but the fear races through you. You can't do this.
You can do this. Voices compete in your head in a battle against the
sound of the rushing water. Don't look down. Whatever you do, don't
look down. They are now long gone. The woods are silent. It's your
decision -- move on or go back. Forward or retreat. At long last, your
inability to be true to yourself is at hand and you realize that you
are not ready. No one ever is.
