Leap of Faith

I just received a resignation letter from one of my staff. It says she is thankful for the time she has spent with the team, but that she has to seek growth somewhere abroad.
I was saddened not only because she will be a big loss to the department but more importantly also because she is doing something I have always wanted to do (not really going overseas but)- a leap of faith.

The last time I did this was many years ago when I decided to leave home to go to college in a place that takes 36 hours by ship. It was growth in celestial proportions, which met me. It was not easy but it was the challenge that kept me going, propelled me to finishing what I had set out to accomplish.

In fact, it was the difficulty of it all that made me feel alive. Time was gold and every minute was spent on learning what must be done not only to survive but to excel!
Then I graduated. I got a job. I got content with finishing to-do's within the eight-hour work days. I have learned to fear inconveniences, and got sucked into the maelstrom of time tables and calendars.

It's like staring into thin layer of intricately designed glass, beyond which is a plethora of possibilities- both good and bad. I continue to build on that layer painstakingly, afraid that the chaos that I see through it might infect the order of things on the side I am in. I continue, each day, to keep things in order, but once in a while, I take a glance at the other side, what if?

This resignation letter is another reminder of how things around me are constantly changing. People are taking leaps of faith in the name of adventure, of growth, while I am warming my chair at my desk, fixing my schedule.

Sure, things are going well. Everything seems to be in its right place, but what now? Do I merely stare at the order I have created? Or should I go hunt for chaos with the uncertainty that I might not ever be able to find order in them?

I wonder, do leaps of faith start with a date, a place or a letter?

Oasis

Sometimes, you find yourself eating at a fast-food chain on a Friday night. Y
ou don't mind how late, but you are going to have your lunch.

You look around. You think someone should be sitting opposite you.
You ignore the thought and think about "5 weeks and 6 days".

She must have planned it. Having another kid could not be taken lightly after everything.
But that's her, you tell yourself.

You notice the ID you are wearing. You've worn it proudly for the past 7 years. You scoff at yourself, thinking that, at least, she has done something she has willed.

You remember how, once, you wanted to go to the remotest villages of the north, learn how organic vegetables are grown, and enjoy the peace and quiet in the mountains.
You've done nothing for it.

Tomorrow, you think, I will start with the whites then the colors. Spinning them should not take two hours. After, I'll dust the fan and wait for Monday.

You finish your late lunch and, quickly, you assure yourself, it's not too late to live that other dream. I have time.

You wonder if she is going to ask you for a name for the little one inside her. But you can only think of cabbage to grow in that little village up the mountain.

It has been a long 7 years.