Brave is what I am not. Generally.
I look out at the brave ones from my nervous little nook, wondering what it must be like to be out there traveling, loving, living, and then I realize there is a braveness in just being, in sitting comfortable with myself, calm in the moment that is now.
Not having to be anywhere, or anyone, or anything other than this. But the braveness that I know to be true whispers, as the louder wanting braveness shoves it around, clamoring for my attention.
Sometimes the true braveness chooses not to step, even a little bit. I want to choose the truer path that I hear if I can only stretch these tight legs, bend my ear to the ground, willing myself away from the noise that dis-tracts and dis-contents this gal who is–at her very core–brave enough, braver than all the voices that tell her she isn’t.
I know this now . . . after words meander through . . . but what about the moments where I feel so small, so little, so un-brave? Maybe after all it’s not my braveness, but my leaning into my lack thereof . . . that leaves me feeling. Brave.