I have been deep in my tunnels for a couple of weeks. I’ll save the breakdown for the review. Summize it was strange to come out of my hole and run errands. More so than that immersed in 2 hours theater darkness, blinking at the brightness of the real world once leaving.
Days deep in building my own little “magical” space. Burrowed in, snug as a happy bug.
Got me thinking…
I used to say, Some folks fall. They fall from this higher place of security, stability and comfort DOWN into a lower place. (Scarcity.) Colloquially they “fall through the cracks.”
Some folks are born in the cracks. After generations down there, seems like the world above the cracks is more fiction than attainable. The greener lawn dreams of Americana.
I’d add to that now; Some folks climb. Some folks pull the crabs back in the bucket (from below) or put them back in their place from above.
Indomitable little tanks (like me) keep climbing.
This chat with my robots, started with where did I get this parable? I may have bits wrong, or have added things, so please check well. I’d like to hear what it is supposed to sound like instead of how my mind remembers it. After chatting, Robot decided my memory flaws and embellishments “Naturally Follows.” IF this and that, thus naturally follows.
I agreed.
So we Article-zed that chat. Hit it, Robot.
[O_O]
How Many Times Do You Fall Into the Same Hole?
A man is walking down the street when suddenly—whoomph—he falls into a hole.
It is a deep hole.
He calls out for help.
No one comes.
He looks around. There is no convenient ladder, no rope hanging within reach, no easy way out. So he begins to climb.
He searches the walls for handholds. He finds a crack here, a ledge there. He braces one foot against a small projection in the wall, pulls himself higher, finds another foothold, and slowly works his way upward.
Eventually, exhausted, he climbs out.
The next day, he walks down the same street.
He falls into the same hole.
He hollers.
No one comes.
There is still no ladder.
So he climbs.
He knows some of the handholds now. He remembers where the footing is better. He knows which side of the hole is easier to climb.
Eventually, he gets out.
The next day, he walks down the same street.
And falls into the same hole.
Again.
He knows the hole is there.
He knows how deep it is.
He knows how difficult it is to climb out.
And yet, somehow, he keeps walking down that street.
So the question becomes:
How many times do you have to fall into the same hole before you wake up and choose a different route?
There is an old and much-loved story behind this idea.
Portia Nelson’s “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters” appeared in her book There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery. The poem is structured as five increasingly aware encounters with the same hole.
In the first chapter, the person falls into the hole without understanding what happened. They feel helpless, and getting out takes forever.
In the second, they walk down the same street and fall in again. This time there is denial: I didn’t really see it. Surely this isn’t my fault.
By the third chapter, something has changed. The person sees the hole. They know where they are. They recognize that falling into it has become a habit. They still fall—but they get out immediately.
Then comes the fourth chapter:
They walk down the same street.
They see the hole.
They walk around it.
And finally, the fifth:
They walk down another street.
It is a remarkably compact description of how awareness can become responsibility, responsibility can become changed behavior, and changed behavior can eventually become an entirely different life.
But there is another (sermon) version
And there’s another interesting connection
I found a version that is actually told almost exactly in the “Day One / Day Two / Day Three” form you described. A sermon source attributes that version to James MacDonald’s Lord, Change Me (2012):
Day five: take a different street.The story also circulates in a more conversational, day-by-day form: Day One, Day Two, Day Three…
Day one: fall in the hole; it takes a long time to get out.
Day two: walk down the same street and fall in the same hole.
Day three: fall in again, but get out quickly and recognize responsibility.
Day four: see the hole and walk around it.
In that telling, the emphasis is on repetition. The person keeps encountering the same hole, climbing out, returning to the same street, and falling in again.
That version makes something especially clear:
Getting out of the hole is not necessarily the same thing as changing.
You can become very, very good at getting out of holes.
You learn the walls.
You learn the handholds.
You learn where to put your feet.
You learn how far you have to reach before you can grab the next ledge.
You become stronger.
More resourceful.
More experienced.
More resilient.
And none of those things are bad.
But they can create a peculiar trap.
Because eventually you may begin to think:
I’m okay. I always get out.
And perhaps that’s true.
Perhaps you always do get out.
But you’re still in the hole.
And tomorrow, you’re still planning to walk down the same street.
There is a difference between surviving a pattern and changing it
This is where the handholds matter.
If every time you fall into the hole you discover a new technique for climbing out, you can mistake adaptation for progress.
You might even become proud of how well you handle adversity.
Look at me.
I know how to climb this wall now.
I know where the good footholds are.
I don’t panic anymore.
I can get out in half the time.
All of that may be true.
But the more important question is:
Why are you still entering the hole?
Sometimes we spend enormous energy becoming better at managing the consequences of a choice instead of questioning the choice itself.
We learn how to recover from the same relationship.
The same argument.
The same mistake.
The same job.
The same habit.
The same self-destructive pattern.
We become experts at climbing out.
And because we can climb out, we tell ourselves that we can keep walking down that street.
Awareness is not the same as change
Nelson’s third chapter is particularly uncomfortable because the person can see the hole and still fall into it.
That’s habit.
Knowing something is bad for us doesn’t automatically make us stop doing it.
Sometimes we know exactly where the hole is.
We can point to it.
We can explain it to someone else.
We can warn them about it.
And then, somehow, we walk straight into it.
That’s an important stage because it is also the beginning of responsibility.
Not blame.
Responsibility.
There is a difference.
Blame asks:
Whose fault is this?
Responsibility asks:
What am I going to do about it?
The latter question is much more useful.
Eventually, you don’t need to climb faster
The fourth chapter offers a deceptively small change:
Walk around the hole.
Nothing dramatic happens.
There is no heroic battle.
No miraculous rescue.
No transformation montage.
You simply see the hole and make a different choice.
And then comes the biggest change of all:
You take another street.
That’s the part I keep coming back to.
Because sometimes we think growth means becoming strong enough to endure the thing that keeps hurting us.
We become better climbers.
We become tougher.
We develop coping mechanisms.
We learn the handholds.
We learn the footing.
We learn how to survive.
But perhaps the real victory isn’t becoming an extraordinary climber.
Perhaps it’s realizing:
I don’t have to climb this hole anymore.
I can take another street.
So how many times?
Once?
Twice?
Ten times?
A hundred?
There isn’t a magic number.
For some lessons, one fall is enough.
For others, we have to encounter the same pattern repeatedly before we can finally see what it is costing us.
And perhaps that’s why the story doesn’t give us a number.
Because the real question isn’t:
“How many times is too many?”
The real question is:
“When will I recognize that I have a choice?”
The hole may not move.
The street may not change.
The circumstances may not suddenly become easier.
But you can change the route.
And maybe that is what waking up really means.
Not becoming better at getting out of the hole.
Not learning to tolerate the fall.
Not congratulating yourself because you can climb the walls faster than you used to.
Just looking at the hole, looking at the street, and finally saying:
“I’ve been here before.”
Then turning around.
And walking another way.
This song is Remastered. Suno.ai has changed a lot in the last year and half since I wrote this.
Traveler Chimiru 
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