“The first lesson that you have to learn when riding a bike is how to fall,” my husband explains to our 5-year-old daughter. “If you never fall – if you’re too afraid to fall – you’ll never learn how to ride.”Buckling on her pink and purple Barbie helmet, she swings her little leg up and over her sparkly princess bike. She settles in for the ride, a determined look on her face.
She takes off down the driveway with her dad running along behind her, holding onto the back of her seat to give her extra balance. She likes the extra stability of knowing that he’s there.
He lets go when she least expects it.
She zooms along with a triumphant look on her face. “I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” she yells over her shoulder, making sure we’re watching. Suddenly she’s free. She’s flying, soaring, the wind in her hair.
Unfortunately that first beautiful taste of childhood freedom never lasts for long. Wobbly handlebars, teetering wheels and a crash on the sidewalk led to a skinned knee, a scraped knuckle and tears of embarrassment.
“Falling isn’t something to cry about or to be ashamed of. It’s part of learning,” her dad tells her as he checks to make sure she’s okay. “The next lesson that you have to learn is how to get back up. Every time you fall you can be one step closer to your goal, but only if you get back up.”
I think about those words. They apply to so many other things in life besides learning to ride a bicycle.
Sometimes people let go of us when we least expect it. Things don’t always turn out how we want them to. Sometimes our plans don't work out; sometimes our dreams end up as just dreams.
I think about the freedom, the joy, the exhilaration that comes along with growing up. I think about the crashes, the tears and the pain. We all fall sometimes.
And we all have to learn to get back up.
I don’t think her daddy realizes just how much he might be teaching her during this afternoon lesson. I don’t speak metaphorically to point this out. I don’t draw parallels for him, or tell him he’s like a wise old sage.
No, I don’t mention any of these things as she untangles herself, brushes the dirt off her hands, wipes her eyes and takes a deep, raggedy breath.
I just stand back and watch as she climbs back on.
From my April 10th article on www.mentorpatch.com
