dog diving

Diving In

So I just asked a whole bunch of you to follow my blog. Something that, believe it or not, I’ve never done before, not in the five years I’ve been coaching clients and writing here. I mean, I had the expectation that people would read my blog posts. I just wasn’t being very vocal about it. Kinda like when I used to meander around my front yard hoping the kids across the street would see me and ask me to play.

I took a chance, and I asked for what I wanted: readers! And my first thought was, “Yay me!”

Quickly followed by, “Crap! If I want people to follow my blog, I should give them, like, something to actually READ when they get there!”

Brain lock ensued, followed by longing looks at a bag of cashews on my kitchen counter.

Even if you’ve never written for publication, you may still recognize what I’m doing here: when writers don’t know what to write about, they write about how they don’t know how to write. Or their writer’s block. Or about their process. Or about their scrambling for a process.

How often do talk about what you’re going to do (learn a foreign language lose weight go to the gym clean out the Dreaded Junk Drawer take a painting class) instead of actually going and doing it? How many of you shy away from doing something because if you started it you might have to actually, like, KEEP DOING IT?

Oh, you guys probably can’t even imagine what I’m talking about. I’m sure none of us have ever stood at the edge of pool, dipping a toe in the water and shivering, while annoyingly hearty souls are already cannon-balling, threatening to splash us, pushing or pulling us or hollering, “Just do it! Get it over with! It feels GREAT once you’re in!”

You know what? Most of the time, it really does. Even if right away, you’re all done or it’s not for you and you want to climb back out. It just about always feels better to be all in, at least once. After that, if you decide you wanna just sit on the edge and dangle your feet in the water while you burn your shoulders, you’ve earned that decision based on real data, not imagined fear.

So here I go, all in. Which is, by the way, exactly how I enter a swimming pool, Yeah. I’m one of the annoying ones. But here’s what I promise: while I may invite you to jump in alongside me, I will not push you, I will not pull you, and I won’t splish and splash at you passive-aggressively while you beg me to stop.

I’m just here, swimming away, with the awkward half-sidestroke half-crawl hybrid I emerged from swimming lessons with when I was eight. You might learn a thing or two watching me. At the very least, it’s entertaining, especially when I forget I don’t know how to turn my head and breathe and inhale a bunch of chlorinated aqua.

I might even, if you jump in with me, be prepared to share my noodle.

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