Spring, 2008. It was my last year of college. The handful of us girls who comprised the class had gathered, at the behest of our professor, on the front steps of Jewett Hall to complete a most peculiar assignment.
Paired off, each team dug in and let loose the loudest holler each could muster, the loudest of which would be declared champion yawpers. Thus, we stepped forward and hurled our voices out over the still damp grass of our beloved alma mater. (The resulting sore throat being completely worth it.)
My partner and I didn’t win. I’d have remembered something as momentous as that, but no matter. Although I wouldn’t dredge up this memory for many years down the road, it was tucked away in a cool, dry place inside my mind, awaiting its time to resurface. I love it when that happens, when all of a sudden you remember something from way back and it feels like a good, hot cup of coffee early in the morning.
This particular recollection wafted to the surface one evening last fall as I was perched on my bed, surrounded by wadded up balls of paper and hovering on the brink of a fairly significant episode. I was trying to crank out an essay for an upcoming contest, but every word I got down felt wrong. The strong start I was going for continued to fall flat and I was, shamefully, on the cusp of hurling my pen and perhaps a cuss word across the room and calling it quits. I held off and stewed a moment longer, and as the waters of my mind churned like the Gulf of Mexico during hurricane season, lo and behold, I began to remember that day on the steps.
And here came the words.
651 of them, eventually.
I worked on that piece for nigh on two months. Only a smattering of weeks before discovering the contest, I had timidly stepped out of my fenced-in comfort zone and determined that I would start writing again. After all, that’s what I was going to do with my life, way back there when I first yawped.
Everyone should know what a yawp is. I dare you to read Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" and not want to go outside and holler one good, long time when you get to verse 52.
In any case, over-thinker that I am, I chewed on every word, spoke them aloud and tasted them as I read and reread. The contest itself was simple. As instructed, I purchased Giulietta Nardone’s Feel More Alive! and began composing my essay based on my favorite chapter(s). I would then submit my proof of purchase along with my essay of 700 words or less, then proceed to chew my fingernails into the quick until the winners were announced at the end of this past March.
Why, you are perhaps wondering, did I allow myself to get so bent out of shape over a roughly three-page essay?
Well, I am quite adept at tormenting myself in a single-player game of What If? It’s a futile game, too. Anyone who has ever played knows you lose every round. What if my writing is no good? What if the judges laugh at my essay? What if I don’t place? What if I’m just fooling myself?
I hope for your sake that you have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m betting you do. It’s more than a little scary to stand with your toes gripping the edge the unknown, arguing with yourself over whether to close your eyes and jump or head back to the safety of that place way over there, far away from that ledge.
That’s where I found myself on the evening of the deadline. The email had been composed and the attachments attached, and there I sat in a tangled up knot, staring, unblinking, at the SEND button. What if…?
I hit that button and immediately wondered if I could send a follow-up email and withdraw my entry, but then a new brand of fear took hold.
What if I go through the rest of my life wondering what might have been, had I not been too afraid to try?
We get this one life. With all my heart, I believe we are created beautifully and intricately, and that the One who created us is Himself creative. We have passions and gifts and talents, but sometimes life happens. Sometimes we run out of steam. Sometimes, we look in the mirror and wonder who put those dark circles under our eyes. I had long since resigned myself to living life on the safe side, though I was madly in love with the idea of…more.
I’ve got a little seasoning on me now. It took losing my job a little over a year ago to realize that I wasn’t really living, anyway.
Can I let you in on a little secret?
Be thankful for that thing that makes you pull up short and take stock of your surroundings. It’s a sign of life. Your looking about may be frantic, but the fact that you are looking means there’s an opportunity lurking somewhere, even if it’s just an opportunity to readjust your mindset.
If this is where you find yourself at the moment, maybe give Feel More Alive! 30 Brilliant Ways to Reignite Your Inner Spark a look-see. Mind you, this is not a self-help book. Rather, it’s 168 pages of love, laughter, tears…and hope. Not a feel-good hope, but hope with feet attached to it. Julie’s encouragement does not come from That Place Way Over There, Far Away From That Ledge. It comes to you by way of a remarkable woman who refused to let the fear of the unknown tempt her to settle for a life less than she is capable of living.
May we follow suit and, at the very least, begin to flirt with that ledge, thereby issuing forth a new round of yawping…barbaric or otherwise.
Oh, in case you’re just a little curious, “Barbaric Yawps and Other Signs of Life” placed second in the Feel More Alive! essay contest. Head on over and read it, then come back and tell me what you think!
Until we meet again….happy yawping!
You can purchase your copy of Feel More Alive! from one of the following: