Don't Look Down

Sometimes you come to a place in your life that is so difficult, you feel as if you can’t survive. You think you won’t make it because if there is an “other side,” well, it’s so far out there you can’t even see it.

It feels like someone put you up on a very long, very high wire, let you go, and said, “Cross!”

There’s this big pole you’re holding on to -- but it’s wobbling. And you are wobbling. There is no net. The ground is so far below it looks like it’s waiting there just to take you. And the fear is that this time, you just might hit it. Hard.

Your mind swirls in disbelief. “How can I possibly do this? How can I walk up here on this little string with the wind blowing like that? People don't cross like this, do they? Not this high! Is it even possible? Cripes! This is hard. This hurts. How am I going to do this?!”

You know the wire must end somewhere. It has to -- all wires do. But can you stay on long enough? You can’t even see the end! The sun is not shining, but glaring, and the wind is stinging and you are praying and trying to hold… on… to…something. But there is nothing. It’s only you; and the wire, the wind, and the pole. And that damn sun.

“How did I get here?” You wonder. “Why am I even walking this wire?” “I didn’t want to be up here! I wanted to be down there, on the ground, like everyone else -- holding someone’s hand and laughing… with my freakin' sunglasses on! But now I’m up here. All… alone. Why?”

And you think, “Geez, how long can I do this? Will I make it? Where, oh, God, where, does this end?! I can’t see it. I can’t find it. I keep wobbling! How do I know I will make it?!” You start to panic. And then you remember to breathe, in -- and -- out. Or you will hit the ground for certain. So you’d better get a grip.

You remember hearing that at certain heights you should simply not look down. This is one of them. Deep breath. “Okay. Okay,” you tell yourself. “Don’t look down.”

There’s good reason for that too. Down isn’t where you want to be (not a direct drop anyway). So you’d better change your focus. Look to the platform on the other side, even if you can’t see it. Picture it. It’s there. Visualize. Feel your foot stepping onto it. Breathe the sigh of relief as you imagine how good it will feel as you arrive. And you will arrive. Just don’t look down. Chin up. Focus forward. Deep breath. Lock those eyes straight ahead.

Now, move.

Slowly at first -- one, tiny, baby step at a time. You can do it. “It will end, it will end, it will end.” Another tiny step. “There is an end. I know there’s an end.” One more little step. “There is a place that feels better than this, I know it. There is an ‘other side’ to it all.”

Another little step. “This will pass. I will get across. I will.”

Another step. “I’m doing it!” (Little smile.) “Slowly and carefully, but I’m doing it.” There is hope.

You step again, looking only at your goal. You notice a bird -- and fall off. (Just kidding!) You notice the bird and you realize there’s life up here too. There is perhaps, beauty. And you breathe a little easier.

The sun has moved and it’s not in your eyes anymore. You notice you are beginning to get good at this. You move a little faster. The wind is keeping you cool. You’ve learned to use the pole to your advantage and adjust as needed. “Hey, maybe it’s not so impossible! Maybe it’s not even as hard as I thought.” You’ve actually covered some distance. And hey, that sky sure is pretty.

You begin to get a little braver, and balance on one foot for a second. You even pose. “How cool is that?!” You’re learning new tricks. You never would have thought yourself capable of such daring things. But you are more than capable.

And that crowd down below? Those people are looking up at you with envy. They wish they could be so brave.

You begin taking long, graceful strides; lifting each leg high into the air before skillfully placing it down again. The crowd gazes up in awe at you in motion. You. But you don’t know that. You stopped looking down long ago, when you found you could experience joy even here, so high, with no net. Wow. Big smile.

And suddenly, you see it -- the end of the wire -- the Other Side. You’re practically there! The rest is cake.

You step onto the platform with a little hop and the crowd lets out a giant roar. You've made it across!

You take a bow -- so proud of yourself you can’t stand it! And you should be. You did it!

All because you focused and you didn’t look down.

Napoleon Hill's Keys to Success: The 17 Principles of Personal Achievement
The Secret (Extended Edition)
Money, and the Law of Attraction: Learning to Attract Wealth, Health, and Happiness

Obama -- "He's Brown"

Can a 6-year-old vote for President of the United States?

My son did. I picked him up from school yesterday to see an "I Voted" sticker prominently displayed on his little blue shirt.

Now, there hasn't been much talk one way or the other in my home about the Presidential candidates. I am an Independent and was undecided until the end, so I voiced no opinion.

My son however, came out of his 1st Grade class saying, "If Obama loses, I am SO kicking John McCain's butt!"

I about fell over laughing. Good thing Obama won. He just saved McCain from a 6-year-old, yellow-belt, plastic-light-saber butt-whoopin'.

"You voted for Obama, did you?" I asked.

He replied, "Yes I did. He won in my class. Ten votes for Obama, 5 for McCain. I like Obama."

"Why do you like Obama?" I asked.

"I just like him. He seems nice. I like his name. It's fresh."
(It's fresh. OMG -- I love this kid!)

Trying desperately to keep a straight face, I asked, "You like the way his name sounds, do you? Barack Obama -- it's hip?"

"Yeah," he said.

"I agree, it's a cool name. It's got a good sound to it." (We're very much into the way things sound and feel over here, creative freaks that we are...)

"Yes," he continued, "I don't like John McCain. He's old and sour. Yeck!" (I swear to you, this was the actual conversation. I am not making this up. This is why I write non-fiction.)

I told him I know some people who feel exactly the same, but I also know people who really like McCain, and that's okay too. Then we left so I could vote.

After weighing everything I'd learned in the past several months, I felt that my ballot was best cast for Obama. Change won out, particularly regarding education and health care, and I hoped to see history in the making.

My son was thrilled to no end with my vote. So was my 11-year-old daughter, who had an amazing grasp on the effect an African-American President will have on children of the same race, and on children in general. So she broke into song with:

"My Mama -- My Mama -- She vo-ted for O-bama!" over and over. (Have I mentioned that I love my kids?) They both went to bed dying to know who would become our next President.

When I woke my son for school this morning, I said with a big smile, “Obama won!”

He sat up and hollered, “YAY!!”

And then he said, very matter-of-factly, “He’s brown.”

I said, “Yes he is, baby. Yes he is.”

You see, my kids weren’t raised to know the terms “black” and “white” with regard to people. The kid with the brown skin is no different from the kid with the blue eyes, or the tall kid, or the short kid, or the round kid. It’s irrelevant. My daughter heard the terms in school as she got older, and we discussed it. But the words hold no meaning for us because that’s not how we see people. We look at a person's heart. If we require an adjective for skin tone, my son is correct, the more accurate color here is brown.

Barack Obama is brown. And capable. And intelligent. And inspiring. And President. And he just showed us all that there are no limits but those we set for ourselves. I love that.

As my son climbed down out his loft bed, he added, “And his hair is brown, too.”

It sure is, buddy, it sure is.

I am so proud of America today -- for looking beneath the surface, for voting for change, and for making history -- that I am simply beside myself! I laughed. I cried. I am filled with hope. We just changed the world.

And that’s cool in every color.