May We Live As Leapers
Let's say I squeeze a little mass of honey onto an empty dinner plate.
The honey will naturally unfold itself until it is a great, wide expanse of beautiful amber.
Now, let's say I squeeze a little mass of honey onto a dinner plate with apples and cheese on it.
The honey will naturally reach and expand itself until it hits the fence of apple flesh and sliced cheddar.
Finally, let's say I do what's normally done and squeeze a little mass of honey into a stainless steel condiment cup.
The honey won't move. It will stay fixed and constrained by the walls around it. It's neater and safer that way, of course. It's also nowhere nearly as beautiful.
Much in life is naturally expansive. Sunlight, aromas, and bodies of water. Animals in the wild and children dancing in the aisles. But fences and walls are put up to contain, constrain, secure.
So the honey question, which is really the life question, is this:
Are we putting ourselves in places where our great, wide expanse can unfold?
And this geography can be as much spiritual as physical. To live with wings fully extended is a great and constant risk.
Perhaps, though, the bigger risk is not to. To tie our wings down, stay within our walls, to never know the aliveness of leaping in the dark.
So may we find our places to unfold like honey. May we expand as far as we were made to expand. And may we live as leapers, knowing our fully extended wings will catch us when we fall and catch the tailwind when we really soar.