Inspiration to "step into the arena"

This is a story about my daughter's success in riding a bike inspiring me to "step into the arena" and begin to write with resolve in my own life.

I have a crush on Brene Brown, vulnerability researcher and author of Daring Greatly, or at least that’s what my husband Issa calls my fascination with her. The title of her book based on the Teddy Roosevelt quote about the man in the arena speaks straight to my sometimes “cold and timid” heart, and I long to be like that man, “whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly . . . who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who have never known neither victory nor defeat.”  This is my story of “stepping into the arena,” following in the footsteps of my daughter.

 

I bought myself a desk last year and put it in my bedroom, intending to you use it as a place to write, as an outward manifestation of my inner desire to give time and power to my creativity.  The desk ended up collecting laundry, also a manifestation of my resistance to actually spending time writing.  However, I barely noticed the desk piled high with laundry, caught up as I was in the din of daily living.

 

I also hadn’t noticed how my daughter Rayne’s knees were bumping up against the handlebars of her worn out bike.  At 10 years old, she is nearing my height and had been bothering me for a bigger bike lately.  I knew it was time, so we went to the store.

 

When we arrived home, Rayne started to have qualms about riding the new bike because even with the seat at its lowest setting, she had to stand on tippy toe and stretch to slide her bottom up onto the seat.  I set up her bike next to the curb, assuring her, “It’s fine. You start by standing on the curb to make you taller.  It just takes a little practice to ride a new bike.”  Arms crossed, she doubted me, but reluctantly gave it a try, only to press the handle bar breaks just a moment later. Coming to a hard stop, she let out a fear drenched scream.  Rayne hopped off and yelled, “I can’t do it!  I’m just too scared!”  After much cajoling, she tried it again; but it ended the same way, only with louder screams, not so much from failure as from a deep seemingly ingrained fear of falling off. 

 

Secretly, I feared I was lending her my own fear - that she had been soaking up my apprehensions, my cowardly way of life, a life in which I’d sulked in safe and secure jobs that were clearly wrong for me.  The way Rayne screamed in absolute terror each time she braked and was too scared of falling off of the bike to continue was just like the way I clung to a job I hated without hope and too afraid to write with any resolve.  Nothing I could say or do seemed to calm her fears, and is it any wonder?  That desk I bought to signify some sort of commitment to writing was the hard proof of my cowardliness as it sat unused, just as she was unwilling to ride her bike.  The sameness of our situations made me feel like a hypocrite.  As much as I longed to set a strong example for her, I felt wholly inadequate to the task of encouraging her to reach her potential when I myself had not been doing so in my own life. 

 

A regular paycheck and health insurance benefits had lulled me into a comfortable safety that nevertheless rubbed me the wrong way, a way of life that “knew neither victory nor defeat.”  Giving in to the fear of the unknown and staying stubbornly on the sidelines of my life made me feel like a person I didn’t know or respect, hollowly answering the phone hundreds of times a day, “Good morning, how may I direct your phone call?” concealing everything but a plastered-on smile for 40 hours each week. I hadn’t picked up a pen to write a story or essay since college.  Hence, with the message of my life showing Rayne it is best not to risk chasing your dreams, I guiltily took full credit for her giving up.

 

With balled up fists at her sides and distrust in her eyes, Rayne turned her back on me and stomped back into the house and onto the couch, where she stayed for a long time.  Hugging her arms tightly across her body and tapping on her cell phone, she distracted herself.  Her sulky, slumped body broadcasted defeat.  We left each other alone, neither one of us acknowledging the soft spot we silently shared, which made it no less palpable.

 

The next morning was quiet, lacking the candor and drama of last night’s ordeal.  Neither Rayne nor I mentioned the bike, but its absence in our conversation did not lessen the weightiness of its memory.  To me, her reluctance to risk falling off the bike and my doubts about listening to the creative calling in my bones were inextricably linked, and my mind was like a rat running a maze unsuccessfully looking for a solution. 

 

I was dozing during the afternoon when the garage door slamming awoke me.  I thought Issa might be going back and forth from the kitchen to the outdoor grill as he prepared the burgers for dinner.  I stepped outside to see my husband in the late sunlight grilling burgers, as I had thought.  Smiling, he gestured smilingly, with the burger spatula towards the street.  Before I even saw Rayne, suddenly I “knew.”  I tripped over our sunbathing dog in my excitement, rushing to the street to see her.  Rayne was barreling towards me on her new big 6-speed bike!  Joy radiated from her in a huge smile as vibrant as the lime green dress she wore.  She rode into the driveway and stopped to see me.  The bike a tad too big, she hopped down from the seat, all her fears from yesterday allayed.  Her elation blended into mine and my joy overflowed, my eyes brimming with tears.  Not only had she “stepped in the arena,” but she had found success!    

 

The change in her from yesterday was so complete, I felt a sort of spiritual hand at work.  She excitedly explained, “Daddy helped me!  He taught me how to tap the break softly so I don’t stop so hard.”  Then she added, as if to make me feel better, “Telling me to use the curb yesterday helped, too.”  She didn’t need to reassure me, though because my heart already swelled with maternal pride.  In that moment, I felt we were equals.  I didn’t have to show her the way; she was showing me what was possible.  The triumph in her flushed, joyful face as she greeted me in the driveway dissipated all my guilt at somehow passing on my cowardice to her, and I was free to be happy for her, for us.  As she rode back off again, giddy at her newfound courage and cool new bike, I reveled in her unlikely transformation.

 

Although Rayne’s success on the bike was her own, it felt like mine too, if only a little, and if only through setting the example for me!  I have since cleared the laundry off the desk and moved the desk to an extra bedroom, although I know it’s not so much about where the desk sits as what I do at it each day.  My crush on Brene Brown still remains but has morphed into a desire to create my own cool thing, whatever that may be.  I am willing to put in the daily hard work and persistence to create meaning through stories again.  As certainly as Rayne was able to get the hang of riding her bike through her dad’s love and support and her own inner resources, I know I am also capable of dedicating myself to writing.  If she can do it, I can too. 

Author's Note

I want to enter this piece into a personal essay/creative non-fiction contest. I am hoping to get feedback as to whether the piece makes sense? Are there logical blocks to coherence or understanding? And does it have have any impact, effect? In other words, do you believe it or does it leave you cold? Please let me know your thoughts! Thank you so much.

Reviews

[Gracious]

I thought that this made a lot of sense and that the timing went very well with the message you were trying to convey. Even so, I found that in a few places, there was a bit of a repetitive pattern as far as the vocabulary.
Either way, well done! Keep writing!

[Jayne Anne]

Thank you so much for your thoughtful review. I have taken into consideration your suggestions and am continuing to edit the word choice to make its cleaner. Thank you.

[Claire Chitty]

This is an endearing piece with nice flow. I really like the quote that you refer to at the start and its usage in directing the piece, and including references to the quote directly at places is a nice touch. I understood and could feel your growth in taking a step away from the procrastination that plagues all writers.

I have to agree with a previous comment that there are a few areas of repetition. For example "I feared I was lending my own fear", perhaps a different word could be used instead of feared, perhaps 'suspected' or 'questioned'? There is also a later example of repetition when you are talking about your husband grilling burgers in the garden. "Smiling, he gestured smilingly". I think this repetition is more a case of missing it in the edit and that the word smilingly just needs to be deleted.

This is a lovely piece and I hope it does well in the competition that you wish to enter it in.