Dear courage

I wrote this letter years ago, for a class assignment. It really moves me to read this.

Dear courage,

I thought I’d write a letter to you instead of diving into my life to find stories that will put me in your light.

That is so hard to do as I don’t see myself as a very courageous person.

You see, courage, as I’m writing this I am in bed, comfortably miserable. Days on end of sleeping for 3, 4 hours a night has made me so tired that I want to be in a place where I’m able to fall over the moment I get really sleepy.

That’s not something a courageous person does.

Courageous people go out every day and are either heroic, or do what they want without fear.

Now I’ve written that line down and read over it again, I can’t help but wonder if that’s courage, though?

Isn’t that just going with the flow? Moving with the wind in every direction the wind goes.

I was able to move with the wind at one time in my life. I had no physical challenges, didn’t have many worries, and yet .. my life was less fulfilling then as it is now.

I was able to do all I wanted, and I chose to watch tv all evening after work, just because I could, or I would fritter away on my computer in a chat room I liked.

In hindsight, I wasn’t very courageous, and I wasn’t very happy either.
I didn’t accomplish much other than earning a lot of money for work I hated to love.

Nowadays, I write way more than back then.

I’ve always said I wanted to be a writer, but never gave myself a chance to be one.

I wrote my first novel when my physical challenges held me in their firm grip.

Funny how that happens.

Anyway, back to my letter to you, courage.

When I read through what I wrote earlier, I realised that I’ve changed my definition of you.

I thought as a child that you were courageous when you did something huge, like going to battle for your king. I was such a smart idiot.
I really loved period dramas about courageous heroes like Ivanhoe, and tales about Richard Lionheart (I mean, that man is courageous just because of his name!).

I knew that I was as far from being courageous as humanly possible.

I was Sylvia Kittenheart, and I rather hid in my room reading all those old stories rather than going out into the world, having courageous adventures.

My definitions changed as more challenges came into my life.

When I chose a hysterectomy over keeping at the powerless fight to heal, I was so proud of myself.

I felt courageous for that split second decision, uttered in the words, “I can’’t keep doing this any longer”.

I had spent so many hours and days in agony, wanting to not have to make a hard decision.

When I did, I was proud of myself and never faltered.

After that, more trials, big and small, came on my path and each of them made me rethink my definition of you, dear courage.

It now has been dragged from my medieval fantasies to the here and now and to a deeply flawed humanity.

To me, being courageous means that I go outside and have faith hat what I do is going to be good for me, no matter what. I can just go out and be.

I put on my backpack, filled with all things I need for an adventure (including my foldable cane) and I head out.

I’m also courageous when I write a story intended for publication.

I’m courageous when I share something that is really close to my heart.

I’m courageous even when I decide to stop writing so I can go take a nap.

Because, dear courage, I think that sometimes self-care is the most courageous thing one can do.

Ever.

Love,
Sylvia