To tilt.

“What a pair we make, huh? Both trying to hide who we are, both unable to do so. Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough. But you also tilt when you should withdraw, and that is knightly, too.” Prince Edward, A Knight’s Tale

So do you tilt or do you withdraw? I’ve really started thinking about which one I do most often. So do I tilt or do I withdraw? Both. Ironically, I withdraw when the challenge disappears, but the bigger the challenge, the harder the circumstances, the worse the possible outcomes, I tilt. I think the fact is that I always tilt toward possible heartbreak, always hoping that I win this time around.

And sometimes I do. With Mia, I feel like I’ve won. Instead of withdrawing, protecting my heart, and expecting less, I tilted right toward the heartbreak. I knew that it might be out there, the tremendous heartbreak of it, but I couldn’t help myself. I ran right at it with no concern of how badly it might hurt. I didn’t feel like I had a choice. In reality, I’m still running at it.

But sometimes, I tilt toward heartbreak and lose. And usually the loss is extreme.

I can imagine myself now, lying in the dirt, wondering how I got there. The pain from the lance still searing my chest.

But then what? What should I do when that happens? Quit? Give up? Stop tilting? Do I protect my heart? What do I do in the face of a broken heart?

I plan to pick myself back up, dust off the dirt, pick up my lance, reassemble the tiny pieces of my heart, and I’m going to go looking in a different direction. I plan to find the biggest and most dangerous chance for heartbreak, and I’m going to tilt right at it.

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