Sometimes, there is nothing left to do but jump in. You’ve circled the rim, looking for stairs. You’ve thrown in stones to see if you can see the bottom. You’ve watched the surface, looking for signs about what lurks beneath.
If you can’t recall the last time you did this, your brain does. It’s trained to scan and surmise data. It’s programmed to factor and consider and rationalize to good conclusions. But, we sometimes prolong the process that our nervous system would make in good course, because we are indecisive. And then again, sometimes the indecision leads us to our decision if we will just listen.
Indecision is a wavering that puts us nowhere immediately, and somewhere instantly. It puts us right where we started, albeit with a slightly different view of shadow, a slightly different tilt of the head. But, make no mistake we are essentially in the same place – in that we remain uncommitted, and free to continue to consider.
The beauty of indecision lies in the process of remaining undecided. The perceptions that percolate; the issues that float and wave. The eventual theme emerging, that even we can’t ignore.
Indecision happens for me in writing a lot. A plot comes to life, but I feel uncertain. How will it be received? And yet, the camel’s nose is under the tent, the cat is out of the bag, you get the drift. My indecision in my writing life almost always ends with a decision to jump in. Write it.
But, indecision is sometimes a voice to be listened to. This happened for me when I was offered a very prestigious opportunity on Capitol Hill. I could not shake the feeling that indecision was as close as I wanted to get to the offer. Hindsight tells me that it would have been a dead-end road for me, as speaking out of both sides of my mouth is not a pleasure or a talent. The opportunity gleamed in the darkness of all of my “shoulds”; but the intuitive voice that would not be silent saved me.
Sometimes, indecision is the last place we go before we decide to jump into no, yes, maybe, or do nothing. Listening to the bridled voice in you that will move no further is sometimes what saves you, and allows you to jump in the body of water in writing and in life, that will sustain you – floating, swimming, fishing, dreaming.