Looking out my window, I can see a little lizard. The fellow is spread out wide on a rock in my back yard taking, in the sun.
It’s a huge risk he’s taking, sitting out in the open like that. After all, he’s making himself vulnerable to any predator that might happen by. It’s a risk I’ve seen played out on many occasions, the stray cats that frequent the area keep well fed on the bodies of little lizards just like this one. So why does he do it?
He does it because he doesn’t have a choice. He needs the warmth of the sun – both direct and reflected by the rock – to keep him alive, to make him whole. He accepts his vulnerability as the price of that vital warmth.
Today, it has paid off. He enjoys the rock for a while, then scampers away into the safety of the grass. He understands, viscerally, the necessity of balancing risk and reward every day.
I’m much luckier than the lizard; when I need to recharge my batteries and nourish my soul, the only vulnerability required is emotional. No cat or giant bird is going to swoop down and carry me off if I let down my guard, only the chance of humiliation lurks in the high grasses.
And yet, unlike the lizard, I often talk myself out of that moment of vulnerability. I tell myself I can’t step out of my safe routine, can’t expose myself to the possibility of failure, because I might make a fool of myself.
The little lizard sits outside of my window and reminds me how very foolish that fear is. What reward can there be, without a little risk? What part of the self will be lost if we stop exposing it to the sun and letting ourselves indulge in a bit of basking? What section of soul do we kill if we always stay safe and comfortable?
I want to remember the lizard, and learn the lesson he has to teach: Stretch yourself, whatever the risk. If you survive today, tomorrow will be richer for it.
