Know Thyself and Do It Anyway

I used to lie about my age. It was more a schtick that anything else. But that's changed. Now I often don't SAY how old I am, and if you ask I might not tell you, but I no longer do that "I'm 29" thing (mostly because I can no longer pass for 29)--or the "I'm 35" thing. Or the "I'm 39" thing. And the reason I no longer lie is threefold. One, I don't smoke and have never smoked, and I don't sun and except for a little bit in my teen years, never did. And thanks to great genes on Dad's side, I inherited his wrinke-free skin. The man is in his seventies, and he may be blind--but he doesn't have a single wrinkle. My Gram on that side died in her 90s, and she had frown furrows--but not a single wrinkle. She aged like those people on the old Dannon commercials from Soviet Georgia--and she looked like that, too. The other reason I no longer lie about my age is I had a baby in my 40s. And I'm damn delighted with that baby and did it without any fertility help (first try!) . . . so I guess that sort of defies the odds or something, and so I think that's neat. And the third? The biggest reason? Is what's the point of getting old if you don't gain wisdom. I really like my own skin--and not just because I don't have wrinkles. I like my own skin and am comfortable in it. I know myself really well.

Or maybe I don't. Or maybe, like this post's title, I know myself and do it anyway.

You see, we all construct, like this blog's regular, Ewoh, says, "stories." If you want to read some wisdom from a philosopher, go through any of my old posts and see his contributions in the comments section. And he's right. We construct these stories about ourselves. The mind is powerful. And sometimes it's powerful in its resistance. And I have learned over the years to "do it anyway."

An example? I spent three years as a mentor through an orphange and foster care program as a mentor to unwed teen mothers. The idea was that if these teen moms felt someone loved and cared for them, AND committed to be in their lives every week for a couple of hours,for a year or two at a time, both they and the babies they had would benefit. We (the mentors) were also supposed to teach some parenting skills, meal planning, etc. Make sure the babies were getting their shots and seeing a doctor, all that. I did this for a year or two, then the federal government stopped funding the program. And I kept doing it anyway because I thought there was great value in loving these young girls--some as young as 12. And in the course of my work, I saw things that I would have told myself I couldn't handle (one of those false stories). Protitution and projects, and crack-addicted families. I also had somehow convinced myself that maybe I could not be a foster mother. My significant other and people around me said they thought I would fall apart when I had to give the children back. And they said that out of love for me. And so I guess that became part of my "story." But then I met a little boy, and I instantly loved him--we just connected. He was the most special child and he was my teen's baby brother. And when he was four or five, he came to stay with me for a bit. If I had wondered if I could love a child of a different race, that had long been settled. I loved him fiercely, just as I loved my teen and her baby. And the whole time this little boy stayed with me, and I took care of him, my significant other kept saying, "You know you can't run away with this child. You can't KEEP him. Even if you don't like the things you see, even if there is a drug problem or even violence, you cannot keep him because it's not your place to keep him. He already has a mom." And I "heard" that, but with one ear. But at the end of the time I had him, I sent him home. He loved his mom a LOT. And I decided it would be better if I was HER friend than if I had this whole invented story in my head that somehow I could take this child and rescue him. I was very, very sad when he went home. But I didn't fall apart. I didn't even cry. I did take a LONG shower by myself. I did go to bed early that night. But I didn't cry. In fact, in my years doing this work, I don't think I ever cried no matter how awful some of the things I saw were. Somehow I developed a steely resolve that I didn't know I had. So the lesson I learned was you can know yourself. But do it anyway. "Can't" should be removed from your vocabulary. You have more resolve than you think you do. It's there inside.

What does this have to do with writintg? I meet a lot of people who want to write a novel. But they think they "can't" finish one. They can. Whatever story you have told yourself about your writing, defy it. You can know yourself. But then you can go beyond. We all have that capacity. The thing you think you fear the most? It won't break you. It won't. I used to think sometimes, that if I forgave people--and I am talking people who did really egregious wrongs to me--that somehow that meant they got away with it. I used to think that holding on to pain was rather noble. It's not. What I found was when I forgave, it just freed up a lot more space for other, far better stuff.

Know yourself. But do it anway. You might be surprised by the results.

Thoughts?