But my heart told my head: "This time, no." *

The last time I wrote, I mentioned that I’ve been feeling like I’m allowing myself to coast by, being less than I can be.  Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about what exactly I do believe in (for the record, it pretty much boils down to love, humanitarianism, and – of course – music).  About how to stand up for what I believe, and how to live a life that is worth a damn.  About the possibility of epic failure, should I try.  About what I risk losing if I make the wrong choices.  About things I’ve lost already in my life, and how to go forward from where I am instead of dreaming about what I wish could be.  I’ve been reflecting on a lot of difficult things, but most of them are both intensely personal and probably incredibly boring to anyone who isn’t…well, me.  So I’m not going to write about them here.  Maybe another time and place.  However, what I can write about are my thoughts (more specifically, my fears) about my desire to reach out to people our broken society usually ignores.

Sometimes I think about going off the grid.  Bailing on everything and moving to some remote jungle society with no electricity, no running water, no corporations, no big government influence.  On a more realistic note, if I had no student loans to consider, it’s not unthinkable that instead of Poland, I would be in Africa or Nepal or one of the more impoverished areas in Latin America right now, doing the same job with different people for almost no pay.  Well, I do have student loans to consider. (And, of course, I love my Polish students, and lots of things about my life here.) But I’m trying to figure out if I can save up some money and go to one of those places this summer for a few weeks, or a month, or maybe three.  One consideration is the cost.  But to be honest, another reason I haven’t done something like this before now is that I’ve been afraid.  I was born and raised in central Wisconsin, and though we didn’t always have a lot, my family did fine.  I’ve been lucky enough to be accustomed to a level of comfort and, more importantly, safety that simply doesn’t exist in a lot of other places.

But I think for anyone who is truly thoughtful about their time on Earth, there comes a time when you decide that you’d rather try to fly – stretch out your fingers, reaching for something – and possibly fail, falling to the ground with a sickening thud, than to live out the time you have left in some imitation of life, just going through the motions.  Rather die trying than live a long healthy life staring out the window.  For some people, it’s a sudden click into place. Everything shifts, and it all comes together.  For me, it’s been coming on in steps: first, a few years ago, finally understanding that time is, in fact, limited.  Trying to appreciate that fact and live the “best” life I could with whatever amount of time that might be.  But still terrified of the possibility that it might not be as long as I’d like.  Still squirming at the idea that even if it’s another 60 years, it will go by in a blink.  Still convinced that there were some fears that I could try to protect myself against.

But I’m slowly realizing that, try as you might, you can’t protect yourself from life.  And even if you can, you shouldn’t.  Because the pain you risk is proportionate to the joy you venture. So (unless you’re prone to exaggeration) the only things that are ever going to cause such unbearable pain that you’re not sure how you’ll get through it are the things that first bring inconceivable bliss.  I’ve been thinking this ever since hearing what my incredibly courageous friend had to say about losing her unborn (but already deeply loved) child: that the memory of the pure happiness and meaning her life had during her pregnancy make it worth trying again eventually, even while still very close to the memory of the grief and terror of her heartbreaking loss.  And my own life experience (on a much smaller level) supports what she says.  Where I didn’t dare to care about something – or someone – it couldn’t  hurt me much.  But I didn’t get a chance to love it, either.  And those things that have had the power to completely shatter me - well, I wouldn’t trade them away for anything on Earth.

All of this said, believing in this kind of yin and yang doesn’t take away the fear.  It just puts it into perspective.  Fear feels huge, but it’s small next to what happens when you let it go.  In the words of one of the world’s great men, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: “We were discovering that life has a meaning only if one barters it day by day for something other than itself.” 

* From Mumford & Sons, "Winter Winds"