Little to do with courage

From the outside, I admit it must appear that I am brave. I’ve made the hard choice, risked it all, stared down the fork in the road. But the truth is, it wasn’t about me at all, I’m afraid. Courage has nothing to do with it. I have no choice but to meet my fate.

Oh sure, I could while away my time looking for another path at the crossroads. I could dig in my heels, throw a spectacular tantrum, flat out deny my destiny. But one doesn’t protest at the coming of rain. One makes haste for shelter and prepares for the storm. 

The truth is, there has been no bad weather that I’ve weathered that I didn’t spot from a mile away. The air pressure dropped and I knew it was time to make for higher grounds. Perhaps I could have stood firm, denied the existence of the cyclone until I was tucked tightly in its funnel. But what more good would it do me among the cows and cars swirling about in the storm’s eye?

There’s a reason my head swims in idle breezes. Why I sit in the shade when the air is temperate. I waste not a moment of a day when the skies are clear. Because it’s only for a brevity of time that I get to enjoy the dry season of my life. And when the clouds start to gather, I’ll regroup again to depart the flood zones. 

Sometimes, it’s just time to go. Perhaps there is a certain fortitude in that truth, but the action wants very little for courageousness. I have no choice but to meet my fate.

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