It’s not that I don’t love an adventure. Someday I want to visit every continent, jump out of an airplane, write a book, and taste escargot. I buy that weird looking vegetable at HEB and look up ways to cook it. I am not shy with strangers.
But something about trying has the smell of defeat on it already.
I’m trying, I sigh when I just can’t measure up.
I’m trying, is my frustrated whine when those around me criticize.
And I’ll try sounds like placating someone when you know it’s not going to work.
How did that word get sullied and sour to me? How did it lose its adventure and become an obligation that was un-fillable?
Maybe it was when too much was hung on the trial. Too much was at stake. Too much could be lost by failure. Try became trial, and I was in the docket.
Maybe it was when trying to perform well somehow wriggled its way in to displace trying for fun.
Once upon a time, trying was sampling life. Trying new flavors, new friends, new feats on the jungle gym was the essence of Carpe Diem–seizing the broad, sparkling day and shaking it down until it ran over. It was hopeful exploration, happy inquisition.
I want to step out of the docket and grasp the jungle gym bars again.