Fearless
It is, I think, impossible to be passionate and discerning at the same time. Passion, by its very nature, is an overwhelming sort of force, while discernment is staid, thoughtful, and quiet. Each is the death of the other. When the two co-exist in a person simultaneously, one must of necessity prevail. There is no hybrid that can be made, no transmutation of one into the other, not if the passion is truly passion, and the discernment truly discernment. Any attempt to balance the two will fail, with the scales tipping finally to one side or the other.
Better writers than I have crafted much finer words from this quintessential facet of human nature. In my own experience, my discernment always fails, and usually not by choice. Dorothy Parker—who was certainly in a position to know—wrote that “Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it, and it darts away.” The same applies to passion, which is of a different order than love, although it is, for me, a required precursor to it. I have often been, to my continuing annoyance, a clutcher.
And yet: I am also an honest man. My heart is open, and, despite my occasional protestations to the contrary, I lack the cynicism that would allow me to fully veil my heightened emotions in order to achieve a particular end. I am not so deliberate, not so calculating as that. It simply isn’t within my nature.
I have found that any attempt to be calculating—intentional or otherwise—has without exception resulted in a profoundly unpleasant agitation, very much like panic, which I have come to realize is the consequence of behaving in a way that is contrary to my nature. I have never made such attempts out of a conscious desire to manipulate, but only in an effort to follow the sage advice of so many of my literary and romantic betters. To wit: “Only fools rush in.”
Sadly—and, again, much to my annoyance—I have often been a fool. An honest fool, mostly, but a fool nonetheless.
Which brings me to my present quandary: given that the end result of this openness can be so painful—a pain which is commensurate with the preceding passion—would it not be to my benefit to seek to achieve such deliberation and calculation? To hide my depths? To secure my passion, to lock it away and release it in strategic bursts?
At this point, the Reader will observe my self-portrait as that of an annoyed, wounded fool. Which is accurate, as far as it goes. However, there is also my ardor, my open heart, and my hope. These things have caused me no end of trouble in my life, and I have struggled against them, with little success.
I am, now, entirely uncertain about the wisdom of this struggle. How very great is the value of feeling! Not just passion, but its ruinous aftermath. Not just love, but its lack. Who would I be were I to stop all that up, to hide myself away from it even for a moment? I already know what the results of that are, and they are measured out one glass at a time, over the course of years.
I have often thought that, temperamentally, I am not a creature of this age. It is too fast for me, and I regret the degree to which I have internalized its speed. In matters of the heart, above all else, my resistance to modern rapidity is low.
There is only one possible mediator between passion and discernment, and that is patience. John Steinbeck wrote, “Don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens – the main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.” I yearn for the patience required to live out that truth. Instead, I have quickness of passion without the strength required to resist it.
I see but one solution to this problem: I must be fearless. Fearless about who I am, what I feel, and the potential consequences of each. Anything less will produce only anxiety and neurosis. This is not necessarily at odds with Steinbeck’s admonishment regarding patience, for the firm rejection of my honest passion by another is as reliable an indicator as any of what it is that’s getting away. In the wake of that, I will have remained true to myself. Wounded, perhaps, and foolish, but true.
In the end, that’s the only worthwhile thing there is in life.
