Me and My Ducks Aren't All in a Row

          Ever since I can remember, my ducks have always had to be lined up before I could even think of starting down a path. The “i’s” had to be dotted, and the “t’s” had to be crossed; the lists had to be written and re-written with the proper priorities straight; and the path from point A to point B had to be clearly defined. Then, and only then, could I begin whatever it was that was so important it needed ducks.

          This was the logical realm I entered each time I felt inspired and passionate about a dream. It was also the realm that killed it. At first I was energetic and creative with my idea, bungee jumping into the unknown with every fiber of my being. But by the time I got to the third or fourth re-write of my priorities (the idea being, “If you fail to plan; you plan to fail); the passion fizzled, and all I was left with were lists and lists of unfollowed trails.

          There have been times when I didn’t have everything thought out, and I just went for it. Thrilled at the prospect of taking a leap of faith without my ducks. I’d step off that proverbial ledge, and look back to see my ducks look longingly at me.

          “You can do it!” they seemed to say.

          Yet, I always came back…  not quite sure where to go without my ducks. Like I said, these ducks and I go way back.

          As I get older, time slips by faster than I’m comfortable with, and these ducks are beginning to work less and less for me. The things I thought I’d have time to do no longer look like prospects, but regrets. The days are filled with paperwork, errands, and miscellaneous chores which leave me unfulfilled. They need no ducks. They are performed with mindless abandon, offering a safety net where I take no risks, nor any leaps of faith. My youth has been swallowed up, and although I am not old, I don’t feel I have the time to keep lining these ducks up in their proper order. I’m desperate to shed them, with the intention of igniting a lost passion, and having it take a life of it’s own.

          Earlier this year I found myself in a position I never thought I’d be in. I found myself having regrets for wasting so much time on my ducks. Having regrets is supposed to be for people whose lives have gone horribly astray, and in one moment of epiphany they realize the error of their ways. But I was realizing that my ducks had gotten out of hand. I had let them run with wild abandon over my plans and lists, and in the end, I felt I had nothing to show for it. Yes, I raised two wonderful boys who were independent, passionate, and creative, but… was that it?

          This week my oldest son went on his first real “road trip” with friends. He waited to pack an hour before he left, and didn’t know exactly where he would be sleeping, or what he would eat. He knew “ballpark” figures for the money he needed, and approximately how long it would take to get to his destination.

          He had no ducks lined up. No lists written out. No “i’s” dotted, nor “t’s” crossed. Nothing to indicate that he was following in his mother’s footsteps. He reminded me of the scene in “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade” when Indiana has to take a leap of faith and step off the cliff into thin air, only to find it’s an optical illusion in which a ledge appears for him to walk across simply because he believed he could.

           And just then, I had my epiphany. I didn’t want my son to follow in my footsteps with all those ducks getting in the way of his adventurous life. I wanted to follow in his. If he could step out into the world without ducks, perhaps I could do the same. Although I have more responsibilities than a younger version of myself, I could take baby steps in following my passions. I decided from now on I would only make one list without re-writes; have a “ballpark” idea of my path from point A to point B; and not worry about the “i’s” or the “t’s” because no one will see them anyway. But most importantly, I would leave the ducks. There could be no negotiating on this because I’d just talk myself into taking them all, and I’d be back where I started. So, as I step off that ledge for the first time, I’ll look back at my ducks, and say to myself, “You can do it.”