“Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment.“—Ralph Waldo Emerson
The first part of this beautiful sentiment, I have been lucky enough to live. I have always been bold, much more afraid of being haunted by the What Ifs than worried about the repercussions of the What Dids. Even though I feel those repercussions as deeply as anyone, timid, surefooted or otherwise. (See also: My Beautiful Maybe.)
The second part of this sentiment, I need to internalize more. I need to accept that Part I and Part II of this quote are weighted together, leaning against each other like an A-frame of possibility: one without the other and the whole structure falls flat.
I don’t want to live in a tidy brick house at the bottom of the hill that can withstand most of life’s predictable storms.
I want to live on top of the mountain, even if in that rickety A-frame. I want the views and the majesty, the heavens and the earth—even though up here I’m not sure if the weather will be wicked or glorious. And even if I have to accept that there exists no weathervane that can tell me what is coming.
I am sometimes afraid that I will never find my peace. But then I have to remember that the fear is the teacher, the guardian who stands in the way of true knowledge. On the other side of every fear is freedom.
I want to accept the challenge of the experiment. How much desire for certainty can I let go of, in order to feel truly free to be whomever I am meant to be?
Seth Godin posted yesterday on his blog, Out on a limb, totally related to what you are saying here. You should read it: http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2013/01/out-on-a-limb.html
P.S. It’s like being strapped in as well as you can be (I’m thinking bungee cord–which I would NEVER d0–or parachute on your back, or climbing harness) and still there is that moment just before you leap, right before you jump and your feet leave the ground, in which you have to trust, not that you’ll be okay but that this is a risk worth taking, especially since the possibility is flight, to soar, to be free. Maybe if we held hands and counted to three, it would be easier?
Jill, I CRIED when I listened to that! So beautiful, so true. Just like the saying, “What’s the difference between a published writer and a writer? Nothing, except one’s been published.” So hard to remember. We are all so desperate for proof we are not pissing into the wind, making things and being people that Don’t Matter. (As if such a being could ever exist!!) I’m so ready to free myself. So ready! 1– 2— Wheee!!!
“How much desire for certainty can I let go of, in order to feel truly free to be whomever I am meant to be?” That, right there: that’s the question. I don’t know. Please teach me what you learn!! xoxo
You know I will! Though I don’t expect to find the answer written in stone, sadly! xoxo
You know, I once literally left everything to live in an A-frame on a mountain. (Not the top of it, but on a mountain.) I’ve thought of it as the biggest mistake of my life–and in some respects, it was–but wonderful things also came of it. (Namely, my children. But there were others, too.) For that reason, I can never put the word “mistake” to it for long. And though that decision brought me much pain, in many different ways, I can never really regret it. I am glad I didn’t choose the safe route, the city bungalow, the risk-free existence that would have killed something in me.
Agreed, agreed, Rita. I’m trying to turn around my loss into a trophy: To know that I dared to live boldly, and that I am learning things about myself that have been hidden from me for my whole life. It’s fascinating. Painful, bittersweet, heartbreaking. But in the end, for the good, for the closer we get to understanding the simple truth (and the complex truths) of ourselves, the closer we get to peace.
You know, as I look back, it’s in the scary that I really grew, saw my worth, felt the weight of my anchor.
GO.
So true, so so true. But OH, it feels SO BAD at first! I never understood why people called me “brave,” but now I am starting to: Because I will stare down anything that comes my way, even as it cuts me, to feel its full weight and make sure it leaves only the scars that it must — not the scars that I would add if I tried to avoid it or make it something else.