On Bravery

At the Iowa Council of Teachers of English Conference last week, Co-President of the organization (and my friend) Jennifer Paulsen opened with an introductory speech on bravery, specifically the bravery it takes to teach and to teach well. One sentence from that speech that I wrote down as memorable was this: "Bravery is risky business."

That sentence rang true with me. First of all, it's hard to be brave - brave enough to do something hard, brave enough to be nervous, brave enough to fight the fights that need fighting. More than that, though, is that inherent in bravery is risk. It's risky because there is something to lose. Pride perhaps. Or self-confidence. Bravery is at a premium because the hero doesn't win every time. Jobs are lost. Lesson plans flop. Invitations are rejected. People die.

Yes, bravery is risky indeed. But that led me to ask myself, What does it take to be brave? What does bravery look like for a commoner like me, someone not in a war zone or surviving poverty or battling illness?

What I figured out is that sometimes bravery is simply starting.

Starting what? Starting anything. For I've found that the start is the most daunting. To start something is to state an intention, to clearly indicate that you want something and that you're going after it. To start means to finish or fail. It means that a pursuit has begun. And that means risk.

Start a book. Open its cover and read 5 pages. Now you're in. The book was safer on the shelf, or in the Barnes and Noble bag, harmlessly stiff in its unopened state, it boldly proclaimed you a book lover with noble intentions. But once you start, you can only keep reading, page by page, or face the prospect of admitting that you just didn't have it in you to finish something as simple as a book, especially a book that you yourself picked out.

Start a conversation. Perhaps with someone you don't know. You want risky business, then open the floodgates to that unpredictable scenario. You might have a friend for life, an annoying footnote to your day, or perhaps one more person in the world that you begin liking but who ultimately will end up letting you down in one way or another. One you start, though, you're in. You've sacrificed your silence for the unknown.

Start a reconciliation. Be the spouse to say "I'm sorry." Or just start by crossing that unspoken, invisible barrier, the barrier of touch, or the barrier of eye contact, those silly walls we put up in the middle of a fight to indicate that while we may be done arguing, I still will not submit or relent in my position. Risk losing the fight to win the war.

Start to quit. Whatever you do that you don't want to do, knock it off, shut it off, leave it alone, or say no. Just this once.

Start exercising regularly. Or losing weight. Or praying. It's easy to want those things. It's easy to dabble in those, saying that you're trying them out. But to actually start, to have a path and a destination drawn out and then to do the Day 1 requirements, whatever they may be, that's to say that wanting and doing are not the same and that you are a doer.

Starting to write this blog post required about as much bravery as I could muster tonight. To start it meant that I had to find something, go somewhere in my writing. It required that I not let the gaping hole in my thinking after the second paragraph derail me, that I not let my recent lack of writing productivity keep me from hammering away at the keys, required that I get words down and click "Publish" and risk that those words are no good at all, that they are, in fact, as bad and as stilted as they feel while I laboriously type one word, then another, then delete, then another. Starting was the hardest part. It was a commitment. And I'm glad I did.

Jenn also said in the speech that you've got to arm yourself with whatever it takes in order to be brave - a lucky shirt, your grandfather's watch, the encouragement of friends, a picture. Take whatever it is you're going to need to do that thing you want so badly to do and that also scares the hell out of you. Get armed, however big or small that act may be. But then start. Take one step. Because then you'll have no other choice but to keep walking.