Like the first keys of Debussy's Claire De Lune, the seed is planted. For entire stanzas it may lay dormant, but then an idea sprouts. Like some new found melody, you explore it further, peaking over into it’s depths. As the chorus builds, you inch closer.
You’ve planned for months, for years, for decades. You’ve had the interviews. You’ve got the job. You’ve signed a lease. You’ve booked a flight. You packed not once, or twice, but thrice. You’ve ached with anticipation and now excitement. You’ve said goodbye, the hardest part (or so you thought). And then, you took the leap.
The flight lands fine, but you’re still falling. Through a turbulent sky, you’re hurled into a world of discomfort. You gasp for air, it’s thin up here. “What have I done” you scream inside, as you fall into a deeper panic.
“What’s that, a blanket?” You clench it’s comforts. A few days later, you find a friend. Two more days, a group of friends. You combine your blankets, and your fall softens. Through puffy clouds you catch the first glimpse of your beautiful new home. The sun is setting over the surrounding mountains, as you touch solid ground.
One’s ability to “take the leap” can be the single most defining characteristic of a lifetime. From approaching that interesting girl across the room, or moving to some foreign land, our lives are so greatly influenced by the chances we do, or do not take. And while the rewards of taking chances are undeniable, getting through the initial fall is no small feat.
Two weeks ago I moved to the small mountain resort town of Keystone, Colorado. And despite months of preparation both physically and mentally, for the first few days, I found myself caught in a plunge. For all of my previous leaps, I’d somehow forgotten just how terrifying it can be.
Expecting to find an apartment filled with new roommates, and instant friends, I checked into an empty old building. Just as I was nearing sleep, I saw a shadow. And then a mouse darted under my door. It was a long, sleepless night.
The next morning, I woke early, and left my apartment in a hurry. The sun was still rising as I walked toward my new office in the mountains. On my lunch break, I took some photos. The next day, I made a friend. By day 10, I'd made my landing.
There’s no telling just how long you’ll fall. And in my experience, the bigger the leap, the longer it’ll take. But regardless of the duration, you’ll eventually land on solid ground. Put yourself out there, focus on the good, take a leap.