In the corner of the dining room where the windows meet, above where I sleep, there used to live a large brown spider. Its conical web fascinated me as well as the way he/she dashed out from it when something yummy wandered by.
Each night, as I lay down to sleep, I thought of that spider near my head… wondered if he/she were a night wanderer…if I might make a tasty meal. Still, I had no desire to move or kill the spider. I was willing to live dangerously because observing the spider’s behavior was so much fun.
When I looked at this weeks affirmation, “I will enjoy the dangers of writing”, (painting, bookbinding, living), I thought of the spider again. Living dangerously can be invigorating. Like when I first began blogging: each new post was accompanied by both anxiety and euphoria.
But do I want to make a habit of danger?
Over the course of this last week, I paid attention to dangerous moments…places where some kind of fear was palpable. One such moment was when I had to call a customer and tell her that I needed to re-measure her table. I just wanted to sneak by and get the missing measurements, but the table was in the back of the house and I needed permission to go there. For three tense days, I couldn’t email her. I was convinced that she would think I was incompetent. Then I stepped back and viewed the situation with more detachment. So what? A little voice whispered “just do it!” and I felt a slight thrill. I dashed off the email and waited.
Her response was, of course, simple and direct: she might be home, but if she wasn’t, I could just go through the gate to the back.
So I got my measurements (she wasn’t there) and came home to begin construction of a large cover for the table…a ten foot long chunk of reclaimed teak. That was when the second danger showed up. Once I got the cover done, I would have to deliver it to an “audience”…the woman and her family. What if it didn’t fit? I was tempted to procrastinate until I realized that time would only increase my discomfort. I dove in and started cutting.
There is a theme here. My dangerous moments involve being seen. That old invisibility cloak is still in my closet. The dangers of writing, of painting, of any creative endeavor, have to do with sharing the results. Exposing myself to (possible) criticism. I get a charge just thinking about it.
But then I do it anyway. And that’s the delicious moment.
Does Kelly like living dangerously? I wonder…