We, the brave. A poem from in the arena

Yesterday, I wrote about the fears and stories that have crowded my mind over the last few years. A lot of them revolve around not wanting to hurt anyone with my writing. In the evening, my ex texted me to say that he had received the newsletter I sent out on Tuesday, and that he had unsubscribed because it was upsetting to read. My heart dropped into my stomach when I read his message. It was exactly what I had just said I am so reluctant to make happen. Sometimes life delivers its messages in strange and punchy ways.

I know I cannot spend my life shielding and protecting people from feeling any sort of discomfort or hurt. I know that pain is often potent medicine, indicating to us where our boundaries are. Nige laid his own boundary last night in response to what I put into the world. That has to be a good thing, right?

Today whilst walking my lovely dog, Molly, I was thinking about creativity, and all the people in the world who are creating, expressing themselves and putting stuff out into the world. I thought about all the songs, poems, books, articles, blog posts, videos, haikus, plays, films, monologues, letters, speeches, declarations, paintings, sculptures, sketches and photographs that will be created today. That is let alone from all the babies that will be born, funerals, deaths, breakups, make ups, engagements, redundancies, promotions, job offers, divorces, house moves, mortgage approvals, mortgage rejections, custody cases, addiction interventions, first days of prison, last days of prison, fleeing from war zones, protests, asylum seeking, human trafficking, pitches made, deals broken and everything in between that will be happening today. The world is full of a LOT. This is the stuff of human life.

As I thought about these things, I felt less alone.

The phrase, “We, the brave,” came to mind. I came home and this practically fell out of me. I’m not much of a poet. This isn’t ‘good’ by any kind of poetic standard. I don’t need it to be. My only criteria right now is that I show up and do the best that I can to make what I write real. And every single one of these words felt real to me when I wrote it. So here’s to us, the brave. May we have a brutiful, human day. (Thank you to Glennon Doyle for that word, brutiful. Life really is, isn’t it?)

We, The Brave

We, the brave, are not alone. When we show up, we don’t do it on our own.

We, the brave, are forging new paths. We stand on the shoulders of giants. We are the present, the future, the past.

We, the brave, feel a calling that won’t let go. It’s a nagging and tugging, an urging and pushing, a pressure that won’t let go.

We, the brave, go against the typical grain. We tell the truth as we see it. We call things by their name.

We, the brave, know what it’s like to tremble with fear. Our voices shake, our ribcages ache. In the headlights, we are the deer.

We, the brave, must remember we are not alone. For every brave step we are taking, side by side someone’s taking one too.

We, the brave, are saying what wants to be said. We are painting and sculpting and dancing and singing the creations that live in our heads.

We, the brave, are exposed to a critical voice. The critic is not the one that counts, we know. We are making a different choice.

We, the brave, do not want to live with regret. We’re showing up daily as best as we can. We’re only just getting started.

We, the brave, have got each other’s backs. We soak in the goodness of our fellow warriors, we try not to focus on lack.

We, the brave, are human and fallible too. We mess up and fail, we backtrack and stall, we silence our voices until

We do not.

* * *

Today’s piece was inspired in part by this Theodore Roosevelt quote, which the amazing Dr Brené Brown has referred to for many years in her work and teachings.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I want to be in the arena. Today I am. Will you join me?

(Image by Willian West via Unsplah. I’m not sure such a magnificent photo of such a magnificent structure belongs with this piece of writing - perhaps it’s a bit grandiose of me - but I was instantly taken with it. So thank you, Willian.)