Leaping

It's a push into otherworld.








We could talk about it forever. But to do it is to feel like a three-legged frog in a chemical pond who wonders if he, too, may become a prince.

Leaping is where the imperfect truths of my life meet the magical. Discomfort gives way to wonder. Deformity may be the greatest beauty. And stumbling on the gym floor might be the disguise of the dance.

A leap. You think: how'd I do that last time? I can't do it anymore. I need my muse. I have no ideas.

All that's different is that one day I leap.

To leap is to throw your legs out over the divide. Close your eyes and risk the whirling eddies. On the other side is a mudbank where ideas are kept, cool and drippy, tricky and slick.

Of course it's much nicer to stay above ground with reassurances like grocery lists and washing machines and hair mousse. It's much easier to shake your head and sigh, "I really have nothing to say today."