Column
by Valerie Kennan
The transmission in the car of my life has two gears: sitting on the sidelines, and reckless abandon. I tend more towards pendulum swings, trying one tactic and, finding it failing, swinging to the other, also ineffective extreme. I spent elementary school following every rule and being too afraid to talk to the other kids—then turned my mother into an accomplice for theft at Party City. She was buying Christmas stockings, and I slipped a heart-shaped eraser into the bottom of one when she wasn’t looking. After paying, I revealed my loot and awaited praise. She was furious and made us go back inside to pay. My adult years followed a similar pattern. I refused to tell a crush how I felt but was happy to practice driving before getting a learner’s permit. It took a long time to learn that there are positive risks. I’m still learning.
At a CPR training, the instructor asked, “How many of you have broken a bone?” Everyone raised their hand except me. “How many of you have gotten a concussion?” Everyone raised their hand except me.
“Valerie,” the instructor laughed, “You haven’t lived a full life.”
The joke hit like the spotlight of a stage I didn’t know I was on.
Over the next two years, I took this advice much too literally. I threw myself into snowboarding, joined a softball team, then a basketball team. To say I’m egregious at sports is like saying “it’s warm” in a ninety-eight-degree heatwave. In softball, I was awarded “Most Improved” two seasons in a row. In basketball, I broke my nose running into someone’s stationary shoulder. While snowboarding, I tipped my board getting off the chairlift and twisted my leg like a wrung-out towel. It was fun and painful and humiliating and joyous—all the things that keep life alive. After mastering the art of physical pain, I graduated to emotional. At age 27, I fell in love for the first time and experienced my first heartbreak. I wouldn’t take any of these injuries back.
Last month, my friend brought a group of us to her favorite off-trail meditation spot. I was forced at gunpoint to sign an NDA of its location. I peered onto moss-covered rocks with zero possibility of a convenience bridge. There was no way. My friends climbed down like sticky-handed frogs, and I looked at my awkward legs. Athleticism has always uncovered the separation between my head and body. The rest of the world must have an extra piece in their brainstem aligning their feet with their aim.
After watching three people cross and survive, I told myself the path was too treacherous. Quotes like “There is a difference between courage and stupidity” and the number one parent question, “If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?” ran through my head. I sat on the edge and made eye contact with a flower sprouting out of a boulder. This wasn’t just any flower—it was telepathic. It told me that everything I had to live for was in this moment right here. I climbed in. Worst case scenario, I wouldn’t have to pay off my credit card debt.
We dunked our heads and screamed like pigs slaughtered sideways. Cold water tells the body you’re alive. In an alternate universe, I sat on the sidelines of my new favorite memory.
Sure, let’s say I didn’t get into the water. The probability of limbs remaining intact would be higher, discomfort lower, and possibility of slugs crawling on me at a definite zero. But the difference between courage and stupidity goes hand in hand with the distinction between practicality and rigidity. Fulfillment lives somewhere in the middle.
“You are like a porcupine. When the animal has its spines erect, it cannot eat. If you do not eat, you will starve. And your prickles will die with the rest of your body.” — John Fowles