The Dive

When I was 9 years old, I wanted to jump off the high dive so badly.

I was a strong, sure swimmer. But I was afraid of heights.

So I'd glance over at the high dive from the safety of my corner of the pool. I'd watch the other kids climb that long ladder to the top, walk--sometimes even run!--straight out to the edge, and fearlessly drop. Or jump. Or dive.

I imagined those precious seconds between board-walking and splash-down as the ultimate freedom.

And, oh, I wanted that freedom!

Two or three times each summer, I'd muster up the gumption to try out that high dive. I'd stand in line, shivering from the breeze against my wet body. Finally, my turn would come to start the ascent. One by one, my feet would climb the rungs of the ladder. Excited and anxious altogether, I continued on, knowing I was safe as long as I held on to the long rail. I'd reach the top, take a deep breath, and slowly walk on, still holding on to the rail.

But the rail always ended before the board did.

Knowing that other kids were waiting for me to jump so they could have their turns, I felt obligated to continue. I'd progress across the board, though slowly. But my mind raced faster, calculating the myriad ways I could fall and split my head open on the concrete below and behind me. Although the board was dangling over water at this point in my fear walk, and logic held that gravity surely would carry me straight down into the water in which I felt comfortable, I held onto the illogical conclusion that, if I were to fall, I'd actually fall diagonally backward to the concrete.

Fears are not logical.

My body frozen, perched at the end of the high-dive board twelve feet above earth, visible to my peers below, my naked fear was exposed to all.

I just couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself jump. Humiliated, I'd start the retreat toward the safety of the railing, then climb down the ladder. Looking down, I didn't dare make eye contact with any of the kids standing in line. I felt certain I knew what they were thinking about me anyway. I didn't need to actually hear it or see it in their eyes. I would beat myself up mentally the rest of the day.

I've since overcome my fear of the high dive. I still dislike heights, but I dislike the fear of heights even more. The key, I've found, is to commit to it and then stop thinking about it. Just walk right out to the edge and GO! Before I've had time to think, there I am, flailing through space with the joy that only freedom can bring.

Writing gives me that joy of freedom: to organize my thoughts, to write coherently and fluidly, to express myself. I love that feeling of publication, whether it's a user manual or a blog posting or (someday, I hope) a book.

But, strangely, I've been struck by a fear of publication the last few weeks. I could simply brush it off as writer's block, but I needed to understand why I felt that fear, that block. The feelings of humiliation and frustration from my youth re-emerged. The difference, however, is that I've been through this before, so I have a head start on working through the temporary immobilization.

What was my mantra? The one that ultimately got me to jump off the high dive? Commit to it, stop thinking about it, walk to the edge, and GO!

Well, here I am: committed, no longer overthinking, standing at the edge. Here goes...