I was driving down from the Felton roads in the old truck for a second time in a day, just after rush hour, when Greg called me on the phone. He’d texted nearly a month early and I still hadn’t responded because anything less than two paragraphs would have been less than the full truth. I’d thought of responses at least a dozen times and held my fingers back. To tell him about what was going on was to really admit that things hadn’t been going well.
We spoke all the way back into town and I found a parking space overlooking the beach and with the beginning of twilight and hundreds of miles between our sunsets he presented, graciously and with love, his wisdom. Advice I needed not just to hear, but really listen to. Different variations of the same advice I’ve been harboring against, protecting the boat from ever again doing what it was designed to do — sail.
For the last few months I’ve been positioning myself toward a dozen translations of the same general advice: just take an action, and don’t wait. Waiting for perfection is a quixotic quest that bypasses failure; anxiety falls away in the face of movement; the world is generally kinder than my fears.
A white truck backed up into the fire lane next to me and five teengers in vans slip-ons moved from the double cab onto the hard top of the truck bed and lay against one another and watched their spring break sunset. I wanted to be them, carefree. But their ease was an illusion — perhaps my smaller, phone embrace was just as warm and kind.