My One Fear

Today, I wrestled with this question: What is the one thing that's most holding you back from the life you most want to live? I wrote the answer down on a Post-it note. I stared at it for a while, and then I crumpled it up. It was supposed to be symbolic--like I'm letting go, walking away once and for all. I was supposed to throw it away.

I didn't, though--I put it in my pocket and held onto it. Here I am, late at night, in those hours where I always find my hopes and dreams and fears colliding and tangling together, staring at this note. Staring at this thing that always comes back to remind me I'm not quite as free as I think I am.

Through wrinkles and creases, the words read:

I'm afraid I will always fall short.

That sentence isn't new to me; those words aren't strangers. I've known them for a long time. They've become like a step-brother I never wanted, never got along with, but I grew to live with him. Tolerate him. Now, he's as much a part of my life as the chip in my tooth from sixth grade, as the scar I bear from back surgery, as my distaste for the smell of tuna.

I think we learn things as kids, responses to people and situations, and we never quite unlearn or relearn them properly. Some of us have learned irrational anxiety whenever we think someone's walking out on us because Dad walked out one day and never came back. Some of us have learned how to dress ourselves with layers of impenetrable steel because it was the only way to survive those cutthroat high school years. And here we are, adults at 21, 25, 30, 40, 50 years old, successful and contributing citizens who cling to our childhood vices.

These blankies, these tattered stuffed animals--they are the fears that have never left us, and try as we might to keep them hidden under our beds from Ikea or Pier 1, they crawl out and expose us.

I learned to fear falling short because at certain points in my life, I did fall short. And I hated how that felt. I figured out how to avoid feeling like that at all costs. I learned not to ask for anything because I wouldn't have to hear "no." I lost some of my competitive edge--I hated losing so much, and it was much easier to pretend like I didn't care. With any girl I ever dated, I never tipped my hand first, never put myself out there before I knew she was into me, never risked anything but a done deal.

My fear of falling short has crawled out again and again and again.

Honestly, I think I hold onto this fear because I'm afraid of putting life to the test--really putting it to the test. I'm afraid that I'll find out that life really is just disappointment after disappointment. That some of us, like me, are destined to always come up just short. That no matter how hard I try, I will never quite reach the thing I'm stretching my hands toward.

I'm afraid to discover that love really is only the cheap knockoff that I've experienced so far. That everything I've experienced is as good as it will ever get. That my story will always be defined by heartbreak and suffering. That the last taste in my mouth--bitter and unsatisfying--is the one I'll live with forever.

If I keep myself from really chasing life, from giving legs to my hopes and dreams, I never have to face those possibilities. It's almost better that way. I can deal with the small disappointments, but I don't know if I can deal with the worst fears I have coming true. When faced with those options, my decision to hold on to my fear of coming up short makes sense. It's easier, more manageable. It's how I survive.

And yet...I have to stop. I have to give it up. And soon.

No matter how tight a grip my fears keep on me, there are times when I feel like my chest is ready to explode. My dreams and hopes refuse to shrink away for too long. They inevitably surge back in rolling, swelling waves and crash against my rib cage. As long as I hold onto this fear of mine, I'll never have peace. The better side of me, the hopeful side, won't let me rest.

Giving up a fear like this is easier said than done. There's no pill I can pop, no shortcut, no easy roads. There are only small decisions I can make every day to stay steady in hope instead of giving in to my fear.

I'm ripping this note up and throwing it in the trash tonight.

I'm going to have to do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

It's tiring work to have to drop this fear again every single day, but what I'm choosing in its place, hope, is worth it.

I have to believe it's worth it.

When Nothing Is Sacred, All Is Consumed

In my mind, there are two particular moments of awe I will never forget. The first was several years ago during the Perseid meteor shower on a perfect August night. A few friends and I had camped out at what's become a favorite a spot of mine among the ridge lines of the mountains in Central Pennsylvania between State College and a small town called Huntingdon. We were sprawled out, each one of us, on our own spot on the bare rocks that jutted out from the trees. The air was warm but dry for August, and the moon was still hiding below the horizon, giving us a little time of perfect darkness.

I've been all over the country--SoCal, Pacific Northwest, the northeast, the southeast, the Smokies, Wyoming, Montana--and I have never, ever seen the stars as brilliant and breathtaking as I did that night in Nowheresville, Pennsylvania. I remember popping bing cherries into my mouth and lying with the cool rock on my back as I watched meteor after meteor streak across the sky with the deepest, most complex canopy of stars behind them. Some shooting stars were so bright, they honestly scared us, left our jaws dropped.

The other moment is the first time I stood in the presence of the Tetons. A few years ago, I took a trip with a group of friends to Wyoming and Montana. On our way up to Big Sky, we decided to hike and camp out in the Tetons. I thought the first sight of these legitimate, craggy, beautiful mountains was enough to make me want to die happy on the spot, but the best was yet to come.

We started at Jenny Lake and hiked toward what's known as Cascade Canyon. Once we passed the mouth of the canyon and reached our campsite which was nestled between three incredible mountain ranges, this is what I saw:

It's like we had been swallowed by beautiful giants. I irrationally (or maybe rationally) decided in that moment that I would never leave that canyon. Those mountains would be the only friends I'd ever need again.

I did leave eventually, though begrudgingly.

It's moments like the ones I just described, in places like those, (and honestly, hours and hours of watching Ken Burns' The National Parks: America's Best Idea on Netflix) that give me such great appreciation for national parks and the preservation of wild, beautiful, sacred places. A few great men and women fought fiercely to keep some of the most incredible places in our country from being razed and bulldozed by the "American Dream" and our ever-increasing appetites for expansion.

There's a line from a Switchfoot song I love; it says, "When nothing is sacred, all is consumed."

I can't help but think how true that line has to be for all of us, nature-lovers or not, as we pursue the life we dream of in the kind of world we dream of roaming.

There are parts of our lives we've allowed to be consumed--our schedules, our wallets, our energy, our hearts, our affections--because we don't see them as sacred. These aren't areas in our lives that might benefit from us defending them--they're areas that need us to defend them.

Let me the first to admit that that I've given over so much of my life to these tiny matchstick flames called obligation and auto-pilot. They seemed harmless at first, but as time has gone on, those little fingers of flames have grown and grown, eating everything in sight.

My schedule became full of stuff I don't even care about. My time with friends wasn't just few and far between--half the time, I wasn't even with people I actually wanted to be around, and I was doing stuff with them that was boring me out of my mind. I had meetings all. the. time. My diet was mostly Wendy's (which sounds awesome at first...and then it becomes really not awesome). The number of books I was reading was zero. The amount of time I spent in the gym was zero. The amount of creative energy or adventurous spirit I had was zero.

It's shocking how fast all can become consumed.

Your "consumption" might look different than mine, and so might your sacred stuff. That's fine--your dreams probably look a little different, too. But we all have to reach a point where we see the fire eating at the life of our dreams and decide to finally extinguish it.

Let's make room in our lives for more proverbial (or literal) stargazing while the rocks cool our backs and the meteors light up our faces. Let's defend, with ferocity, our need to stand before the snow-capped mountains and have fresh, new dreams placed in our hearts.

Let's take back what's sacred.

There is a beautiful, adventure-filled life waiting for us to fight for it.

Come On Over Anyway

Last week, as I often do, I swung by the apartment of my friends Will and Marissa since I was in their neck of the woods. I appreciate those friendships where that can happen--no advanced notice, no date set in my iPhone. Just show up, and the door is always open. As I peeled my shoes off, dropped my layers, and basked in the warmth of their place, they told me about what they'd been doing earlier that day. They had begun to head over to the house of another couple we're friends with. Will and Marissa told me they called ahead, and our friend said something I've been thinking about ever since.

"We're having an argument right now, but come on over anyway."

And they did come over. And there was, indeed, an argument happening.

The best part of it all? It was totally okay. They had a great time together, even as the argument worked itself out.

That story made me smile. There's something I really like about that. Yeah, we're fighting right now, and everything's not perfect and peachy, but you're still invited.

When we invite people to see us at less than our best, we're truly inviting them into our lives--not just an image or expectation we've created for other people to see. There's something so relieving about doing that--for everyone involved, both the inviters and invitees. As this friend would later tell me, "What you see is what you get."

On a similar note, I always laugh when I come to someone's place and they apologize profusely for the mess as they scramble to scoop up some laundry or shove some boxes in a closet. 99% of the time, I never even once think the word "messy" when I visit. I think "comfortable." I think "home." There's no need for lofty impressions. No need for proper silverware and fancy plates--paper and plastic products are fine with me, as long as you're being you and I can be me.

Funny thing about that day is that Will and Marissa told me that they, too, had been arguing before I came over. I think about the possible trajectories of that night--they could have told me I couldn't come over because they were arguing. I would have went home, and they probably would have kept arguing. Instead, they let me in. We laughed. We talked life. I walked away with way more clarity on my direction in life and a great appreciation for my friends. I like to think they walked away better off, too.

It's hard to let people into our lives when we're fighting with each other, when there's a pile of laundry that hasn't been folded, or when the kitchen hasn't been scrubbed to a shine. It leaves us feeling exposed, or like the photo's being taken just as we sneeze.

I've found, though, that those are the best kinds of moments. Real friendships grow more in the deep soil of authenticity than the shallow sand of airbrushed smiles and swept-up floors.

I hope I can do this in my life--no matter what shape I'm in, how I feel, what's going on, I can say, "Come on over anyway."

On Hope: I May Have a Problem

"May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears." -Nelson Mandela

Ever since I first stumbled upon these words on January 17th, I haven't stopped thinking about them. They've climbed out of my computer screen and, like vines, have wrapped and twisted themselves all around me.

For almost two weeks now, I've wrestled with the words and what they might actually look like in my life. What choices am I making out of fear? What choices could I make out of hope? Which choices are wise, cautious choices and which ones are steeped in sanitized safety?

I have a dark little secret I've been hiding.

Every time I've sat down to grapple with these questions, it's as if I've taken a small sip of hope--I like to envision it with a bit of tonic water, some ice, and a squeeze of lime. I've been holding the glass close to my lips these past two weeks, letting the contents sting my nostrils. Eventually, sips quickened and became gulps. I've kept pouring into my glass, cutting more limes, refilling the ice trays. And after days and days and days of downing this stuff, when I finally went to stand up, the room was spinning. I started thinking wild thoughts. I could feel the liquid courage coursing through my veins.

Friends, I'm completely, shamelessly drunk on hope.

I'm gone, man.

I'm so gone, I don't even care what making hopeful decisions "looks like" anymore. You see, when you've had too much hope to drink, you don't worry about the details anymore. You say whatever hope brings rushing out of your mouth. You throw your chair down, march in a crooked line to the dance floor, and start moving your body in awkward and glorious freedom. It doesn't matter what people think at that point--hope has taken over.

I know some of you are laughing at me. I know some of you are shaking your head, thinking, So sad. So naive. If only he could see what we're seeing. It's quite embarrassing, really.

I'm okay with that. I'm okay that you think almost all of those things; you can even go as far as to feel pity for me. I know I'm stumbling around, eyes glazed over with dreams, moving my limbs with the grace of a giraffe on sedatives.

Do not, however, mistake me as naive. I know full well the dark side of hope and its brutal, crippling hangover. I know the cost. I know the risk. I've paid dearly, and I have the scars to prove it.

I understand that I'm headed for disappointment.

I understand my heart will be broken.

But here's what analyzing that Mandela quote, what binge drinking hope has made me realize:

I'm so done being afraid of disappointment and fearing the worst. 

You know, I used to be young and reckless with hope. I used to climb to the roof and, with stupid confidence, declare that I could make the leap into the pool below. I used to laugh when people would tell me I couldn't or that I was crazy.

I've lived for some years now an existence in which I let sensible, sober people convince me that my dreams were too big, that my hopes were too high, that my expectations were too great. I came to believe that I wasn't allowed to ask or hope for anything good, let alone great. I buried my bottle. I flushed all my hope down the drain--every last drop.

That dry, hopeless way of living? It's been more unbearable than any disappointment I've felt from trying and then failing.

Never again. I will not resign myself to that timid, tame life.

Instead of cowering in the shadow of disappointment, instead of covering my eyes to avoid seeing a potential tumble, instead of piling up stones to protect my exposed heart, I want to stare straight down the barrel of the gun. And I'll have a goofy grin on my face, and I'll be singing a slurred, falsetto rendition of Teenage Dream. I refuse to bow down to the fear of failure.

This kind of approach to life isn't for everyone. It's foolishness, really. You have to be ready to peel yourself off the floor again and again when disappointment inevitably knocks you off your feet. You have to keep opening your chest at the risk of adding another scar to your heart. You won't escape unscathed.

You have to be slightly off your rocker to sell out to hope.

Just so happens I'm looking to get a little crazy. To the people are also crazy enough to join me:

Cheers.

Surprise! It's Life

Most movies are really predictable. There are even movies I watch where I can tell you exactly what's going to happen in the rest of the movie by watching the first five minutes. Being predictable doesn't necessarily make a movie bad--there are dozens of reasons to enjoy a movie--but when you come across a movie that keeps you on the edge of your seat because you have no idea what will happen next? That's a great movie.

The best example of a movie like this that I've seen is District 9. I won't go into any plot points here (because I already tried and can't help writing an effusive movie review instead of whatever this blog post is supposed to be about), but I'll say this--when I first watched the movie, I had no idea what was going to happen next. Throughout the entire movie, each twist and turn was completely new and unexpected.

I loved that feeling. It made for an awesome movie experience.

Do you know when I hate that feeling? When it comes to my life.

Don't get me wrong. I love the little surprises--surprise parties, surprise gifts, surprise visits (from the right people, anyway), surprise twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans. When it comes to the big stuff in life, though, I find myself trying to push down the anxiety, fear, and frustration that come with not knowing what tomorrow brings.

I'm a case study in contradiction. The last time I went snowboarding two weekends ago, it was dark out, and the weather started to get wet and misty. There was a fog on the mountain that kept us from seeing farther than ten, fifteen yards.

My friend said to me, "This is rough."

My response?

"This is amazing." I loved the thrill and adventure of having to make some split-second decisions as a turn, or another person, or a tree broke through the curtain of white fog ahead.

Easy when it's snowboarding. But if I'm faced with something that actually matters in life, and I can't see through the fog, I start to squirm. I feel uneasy. I want to know what happens. I want to know what to expect. I want to know that I can make certain decisions and not fly off the turn or crash into a tree.

Today, I'm reminded of movies like District 9 and the value of surprise. The best stories are the ones where you can't see what's coming. Not like I have a choice anyway--life will be full of surprises. We can't avoid that. We can plan all we want, but life doesn't like to be bottled up and stored on our organized shelves.

Tomorrow, next week, next year, we may be working at a job we did not see coming. We may be living in a place we never thought we'd live. We might be in friendships and relationships that never could have been predicted. Good or bad, surprises are an inescapable part of life.

Today, I'm committing to embrace the twists and turns, the mystery and intrigue of tomorrow. Because I want a great story, and the best stories are full of surprises.