by Jill MacGregor
As I stand on the threshold of every new venture, especially one that makes me feels shaky, one that confirms all that I do not know, I think of walking on a frozen lake. It’s so easy as you begin from the shore—your first ten steps are strong and fearless. The water is shallow and it hasn’t taken much for it to freeze solidly. It’s what happens the further you get from shore—when things begin to happen under your footing to make you feel like this was all a foolish mistake, like you’ll never make it across this lake and even though you’ve travelled so far, you suddenly feel that you’ll never make it to the opposite shore.
You start to calm your nerves but then you hear it, the ice cracking under you. At first, you tell yourself that it was nothing—it wasn’t a crack it was more like a give, like an old stair creaking under your weight. A few more careful steps and all is silent except for the trudge of your boots catching the last bit of snow and crunching it into the ice. You breathe a cautious sigh of relief and work to recover your confidence.
Alone. Because who is foolish enough to follow you out onto the frozen lake? They’ve been warned and they listened. They’ll meet you safely on the other side where they now wait somewhere warm.
And there you are, standing in the middle of a frozen lake. You begin to think how deep it is where you stand; you remember that you’re not allowed to swim that far during the summers. It’s not safe. No one would be able to reach you in time.
But there you stand.
If others knew what you were doing they would have encouraged you to stay on the shore. They would call you careless. There’s no reason to take chances like this.
You take your next step. You hear the crack, the crack that seems to emanate from the toe of your boot and create a vein through the ice. You freeze as if you can stop what’s already started by standing still. The noise fills you with more fear that the understanding that the ice is cracking.
You take careful step after careful step as you picture yourself falling through the ice, landing in the freezing water, being carried under the frozen ice and trapped.
I always wonder how to define bravery. Is it doing something even if it terrifies you? Or is it still considered brave if you have no choice in the matter and must move forward? You, who decided to walk across the frozen lake—are you brave with your first step or do you become brave after the ice begins to crack and you still walk forward to the other shore?
So you find the courage and the shore becomes closer. You are still on top of the ice, not under it. You begin to wonder what you’d been so afraid of, as you move closer to the shore—of course, you were going to be fine. The ice is feet deep and will hold you, even if it makes a few cracking noises. There was never anything to worry about—your fears had merely found a way to whisper in your ear and touch on all your weakest spots. Once you are on the other side the lake doesn’t seems so big or so deep.
It’s the same lake as it was from the other side. It’s you that’s different now.
