I look out of the window, flames lick at the top of gum trees across the road. My heart beats faster and it’s as if helicopter blades slam around inside my head. I run and grab one child, tucking him under my arm like a newspaper and pick up my daughter with my other hand. I try and whistle for the dog, but my mouth is dry.
I have choices to make.
In that moment I choose not to look for photos.
Choose not to take important papers.
Choose not to scrabble through drawers looking for jewelry.
I choose to pick up my children, call my dog and run for our lives.
We were fine. The fire wasn’t as close as it appeared. I was able to return to my intact home.
Life went on.
An image has touched my heart this week. A three year-old child lying dead on a beach. His parents chose to risk taking a boat trip to safety only to lose everything.
The image represents many around the world who have made the choice to escape and in an attempt to save their families.
Our choices become crystal clear the more we have to lose.
I’m a writer who seeks to inspire people to live a life more travelled.
A life full of adventure.
A life filled with creativity.
With so many people suffering how can I write with conscience about choice?
What is my conscience telling me to write?
My conscience is telling me that choice is a privilege.
That choice involves digging deep into my values.
Integrity is where I’ll find the direction I need.
I’m being challenged to make my choices simple.
As I listen to debates about refugees.
As I see a person living on the street.
As I hear of someone who is struggling.
As I’m confronted with the choice to look away…
I’ll be reminded.
I can make a difference.
I have the privilege of choice.