“We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really st op to look fear in the face…we must do that which we think we cannot.”

— Eleanor Roosevelt

I was a very shy child.  I learned quite early that the thoughts and feelings I carried inside me expressed something that made other people uncomfortable.  I didn’t like the idea that I might knock someone else off center by speaking my ideas.  Conformity, I learned, was what people desired from me; and since I wanted to be liked and accepted, I learned to speak only the words that conformed with the thoughts of others.  Mostly I kept silent, afraid that I would let something slip out that would earn me the disdainful looks of the people I wanted to please.  Many false impressions of who I was were born of this desire to stay silent.  One of them was the idea that I could not speak in front of a group.  The minute I was called upon to deliver a report or lead a meeting, my hands would begin to sweat, my voice would grow unsteady, and I would forget everything I intended to say.  It is not an easy thing to share such a small part of who we are.  When we are afraid that we might say too much, it can paralyze us to the point where we are unable to speak at all.

I think about this today as I prepare for another day of boarding the hay wagons and greeting strangers — children and adults — whose tractors break down on their way to the pumpkin patch.  I remember the day three years ago when I first was offered the job.  I was reluctant to say yes; but since a friend was in a jam and very insistent, I agreed to give it a try.  That first year, with palms sweating and voice forced not to shake, I managed to read the book, speak my lines, and send them on their way.  By the second year, I had grown confident enough to add some special touches — a spontaneous rhyme or an observation about the carpet of leaves on the ground; and the result was magical.  I watched the children respond to the part of me I had hidden away, and something that lay dormant sprang to life.  By doing what I knew I could not do, I found the hidden part of myself that was not only capable, but magical as well.

I think this morning about the way this magic spreads each October.  The children are filled with mixed emotions.  They look forward to finding a pumpkin in the pumpkin patch; but first they must venture into the woods.  There are spooky images along the trail; and when the tractor sputters to a stop, they can only imagine that something scary lurks behind the door of my tiny house.  In a very small and constructed way, these little ones have an opportunity to face their fears and discover that they are stronger than they believe they can be.  I like to think that they leave this experience just a little bit more courageous than they were when they arrived.  By doing what they cannot do — by facing their fear of the unknown — they gain one more bit of confidence that will follow them to the next challenge.  I like to think that I give them this gift, wrapped up in a story, a song, or a rhyme, each time I send them on their way.