I have been looking for courage most of my life. In books, on frenetic street corners, beneath the lonely trees in old meadows. I traveled on foot, bicycle, other people's cars, public busses, and on one notable occasion, horseback.
I'm no braver than when I started, but I may have gotten a bit smarter. I learned how to hold a conversation, change a tire, and the proper way of hugging someone in a way that makes them feel safe.
I've seen all manner of things: grief, love, passion, stupidity in great and small shares, greed. But courage is a rarer thing and I found it but seldom. It's best at hiding, stepping back into the shadows until something forces it into the light.
I've never met a person who has sought it out as I have, so I guess I'm a rarer specimen still. A lonely man who spends his quickening years pursuing the most basic, fluid, and abstract of concepts.
This time I'm telling you about, it happened recently. But that doesn't matter. It happened close to where we sit, but that doesn't matter either.
There was a man, sitting on the street corner. He was crying in a quiet way; head tilted back and tears making their slow way down his cheeks. He was old, and looked like he could be mean and spiteful given a reason. I stayed away, and so did everybody else. He reeked of crazy and dangerous. It's a particular scent, kind of like mold and kind of like thunder, that you can never forget.
A younger man came walking by. One of those cocky young men, dressed kind of sharp. Nice clothes. Probably on his way to meet a pretty girl or an old friend for coffee, there was that kind of bounce in his step.
He walked by the old man on the corner, and he must have smelled the crazy and dangerous smell that comes off men like that, because I saw he gave him a bit of a berth when he walked by him. Smart kid.
But then he stopped and looked back. And I was across the street, but I wanted to tell him to keep walking. Whatever he had waiting for him at the other end was much better than the old man could provide him with. Maybe the old man had a knife. Maybe he had a gun. Maybe he was just waiting for somebody to look him in the eye, so he would have enough reason to push his pain on somebody else.
Keep walking, I thought at this kid. But this kid was stupid and probably idealistic and hung up on doing the right thing because he didn't know better. You know the kind I mean. They try to make everything better, but they usually make any given situation worse, make a small skirmish into a battle and then into a war.
That was the kind of kid who had more courage than me or any of the other people that had walked by the old man with his ratty jacket and mold-and-lightening reek, because he turned right around and knelt down in front of him. He had some nice pants on, and he just squatted down on the dirty old sidewalk without a thought. Well within punching distance, I might add, even if the old man didn't have a knife.
I was too far away, so I don't know what he said, but the old man didn't punch him, or even really look at him. But he nodded, and took the hand that the young man offered him. They both stood, and kept on walking the way the kid had already been going. The old man didn't let go of his new friend's hand, and the young man didn't try and shake him off.
So ever since then, I've been looking for courage. Because maybe even if it hides too well in myself, the sight of others' can maybe coach it out into the light and air. Maybe then I'll be able to breathe easier, knowing exactly where my courage is, should I ever need to find it.
I have been looking for courage most of my life. In books, on frenetic street corners, beneath the lonely trees in old meadows. I traveled on foot, bicycle, other people's cars, public busses, and on one notable occasion, horseback.
I'm no braver than when I started, but I may have gotten a bit smarter. I learned how to hold a conversation, change a tire, and the proper way of hugging someone in a way that makes them feel safe.
I've seen all manner of things: grief, love, passion, stupidity in great and small shares, greed. But courage is a rarer thing and I found it but seldom. It's best at hiding, stepping back into the shadows until something forces it into the light.
I've never met a person who has sought it out as I have, so I guess I'm a rarer specimen still. A lonely man who spends his quickening years pursuing the most basic, fluid, and abstract of concepts.
This time I'm telling you about, it happened recently. But that doesn't matter. It happened close to where we sit, but that doesn't matter either.
There was a man, sitting on the street corner. He was crying in a quiet way; head tilted back and tears making their slow way down his cheeks. He was old, and looked like he could be mean and spiteful given a reason. I stayed away, and so did everybody else. He reeked of crazy and dangerous. It's a particular scent, kind of like mold and kind of like thunder, that you can never forget.
A younger man came walking by. One of those cocky young men, dressed kind of sharp. Nice clothes. Probably on his way to meet a pretty girl or an old friend for coffee, there was that kind of bounce in his step.
He walked by the old man on the corner, and he must have smelled the crazy and dangerous smell that comes off men like that, because I saw he gave him a bit of a berth when he walked by him. Smart kid.
But then he stopped and looked back. And I was across the street, but I wanted to tell him to keep walking. Whatever he had waiting for him at the other end was much better than the old man could provide him with. Maybe the old man had a knife. Maybe he had a gun. Maybe he was just waiting for somebody to look him in the eye, so he would have enough reason to push his pain on somebody else.
Keep walking, I thought at this kid. But this kid was stupid and probably idealistic and hung up on doing the right thing because he didn't know better. You know the kind I mean. They try to make everything better, but they usually make any given situation worse, make a small skirmish into a battle and then into a war.
That was the kind of kid who had more courage than me or any of the other people that had walked by the old man with his ratty jacket and mold-and-lightening reek, because he turned right around and knelt down in front of him. He had some nice pants on, and he just squatted down on the dirty old sidewalk without a thought. Well within punching distance, I might add, even if the old man didn't have a knife.
I was too far away, so I don't know what he said, but the old man didn't punch him, or even really look at him. But he nodded, and took the hand that the young man offered him. They both stood, and kept on walking the way the kid had already been going. The old man didn't let go of his new friend's hand, and the young man didn't try and shake him off.
So ever since then, I've been looking for courage. Because maybe even if it hides too well in myself, the sight of others' can maybe coach it out into the light and air. Maybe then I'll be able to breathe easier, knowing exactly where my courage is, should I ever need to find it.
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