Born Romantics

Someone, most likely someone related to me, sent me this Richard Stine card as a, again, most likely, birthday card. Back in the days before e-mail. I had it magnetically attached to many a refrigerator, stuck by thumb tacks to several walls and even, as I recall, Scotch-taped to a long lost photo album. All because that someone thought it captured some mysterious character trait that connected the author to me. It did, it does, and it continues to.

I guess for two reasons. One, the easiest, is that I admire the art. It is a cool rendition of a common sociological condition. (Almost) everyone immediately gets it. One either relates and smiles or doesn't and doesn't. I stand firmly in the corner of the relaters. I am a born romantic. My glass has always been half full. My motto, "safety third", irritates the heck out of my brother, a commercial aviation and defense contracting lifer, but satisfies my mission of intrepid exploration and fearless non-compliance. Damn the torpedoes.

In this spirit, I offer today, a concept that too often goes unexamined. Or too unexamined closely enough. This would be reason number two.

The saying about the poor helpless romantic about to step off the chasm and towards the hungry mouths of the crocodiles below?

All good. Life.

Except that we should detail it out. Ask some questions and seek some answers.

Why do we not consider the plight of this pilgrim and look at the run-up to his or her facing, perhaps the most important decision of his or her existence? We talk about taking the step, making the leap of faith, taking the plunge, walking in another moccasins, but…..

…..what about the hundreds, thousands or hundreds of thousands of steps that proceeded this celebrated one?

How did we get here and what precipitated this dramatic moment of truth?

Every step is the most important. In practice, in patience and in performance (I could add the P of politics here, but will temporarily refrain).

Make each step count. Every pedal rotation, as proxy for footstrikes, every stroke in the pool and, yikes, every breath.

Because this is your superlative. This is the 'most important'.

Enter the world of now all ye romantics. We have work to do