BETTER SORRY THAN SAFE
Mike Nettleton
I started
thinking about the concept of risk the other day after my 66-year old best
friend Michael confided that he’d signed up for Scuba-diving lessons.
Apparently, strapping on oxygen tanks and exploring the murky depths, had been a
life-long dream; he was damned if he was going to let his heart issues and age
stop him from fulfilling it.
As a realist, who
jokes he is a “drowner” as opposed to a “swimmer,” this sound like insanely
risky behavior. (Keep in mind I never did earn my YMCA “porpoise” credentials
as an 8-year old, settling instead for a certificate that labeled me “algae.”)
I’m exaggerating, of course. If I capsized in the ocean, I’m confident I could survive.
The strategy is simple; find the nearest person who knows what they’re doing
and hold on for dear life.
Our earliest
recollections may include parental reminders to avoid questionable behavior at
different ages and stages of our life.
“Don’t touch the hot stove, you’ll burn your
hand!”
“Stay away from that boy, he’s got
trouble written all over him!”
“Invest in a company that makes running
shoes? That's crazy talk!"
When we become
adults, (I’m still waiting for my certification) many of us continue to
practice risk avoidance—settling into safe jobs, safe marriages, safe hobbies.
But, reflecting
on my past, much of what has been the most gratifying involved taking chances.
Not putting myself in physical peril so much, as I have no desire to jump out
of a perfectly good airplane, rattlesnake wrangle or spelunk. In my case, risk
has involved making life decisions that left a major question hanging in the
air. “What’s going to happen now?”
I once took a
morning show job in radio without having met the people I was going to work
for. In fact, my job interview and acceptance consisted of a recommendation
from a friend of mine and a five-minute conversation with the general manager.
Shortly after,
I found myself schlepping across the southwest part of America pulling
U-haul trailer behind a skeptical (and shoddily made) Mazda. Neither my
future-former wife or I had any clue what to expect from Albuquerque. In fact we had to stop in Flagstaff, Arizona
and ask if, perhaps, we’d already driven past it and hadn’t noticed. And yet .
. . yet . . .my dozen or so years in New
Mexico proved to be some of the richest, most
rewarding and memorable times of my life.
As writers, we
know all about putting ourselves on the line. After all, that manuscript you’ve
toiled over for months (if not years) runs the constant risk of ridicule and
disdain. That carefully crafted simile, as graceful as a wet dachshund, could
easily provoke a reader to say or think; “That
sucks like a nuclear-powered vacuum cleaner.” Yet, all it takes is for one
reader to tell us she enjoyed reading our work and looks forward to the next,
to make the negativity swirl down the drain—forgotten.
In my
retirement years, I’ve begun thespianizing again. (If it’s not a word, it
should be). I acted (and acted out) regularly during my college and
post-college days. The first post-retirement foray, two summers ago, was with
Portland Actor’s Ensemble, a company that performs free Shakespeare in the city
parks during the summer. We coped with traffic noise, barking dogs, car alarms,
boisterous street punks and a drunk who, to paraphrase Janis Joplin: pulled his harpoon out of his dirty red
bandana. This cretin wailed out harmonica blues riffs during my best speech
in the The Tempest. We had to
incorporate him into the on-stage action. The adrenaline generated by terror
and generous audience applause during the curtain-calls left me feeling alive,
relevant and craving another chance to entertain.
Most recently,
I’ve gotten involved with The Original
Practice Shakespeare Company. These maniacs perform the Bard’s work faithful
to techniques used n the 16th and early 17th century: no director; no
rehearsal; scripts-on-a-scroll that only include your lines and the cue line
before yours. Your tools as an actor are your interpretation of what’s going on,
based on the words on the page, the actions of the other characters and
whatever costuming and props you choose to bring with you. You’re encourage to
include the audience in your antics. Act one, scene one, you’re on your own, go
for it. Trust me, performing this way is undiluted fear of the most delicious
variety.
Now this
endeavor is certainly not an equivalent risk to being lowered into the
Mariana’s trench in a shark cage or schussing down the sheer face of various
and sundry Alps, but it does share some
characteristics. There is that moment, when you step forward and launch
yourself into the abyss of unknown outcome that makes you appreciate the fullness
of life and your potential as a human being.
Leaving your
own comfort zone, and pushing the limits of what you believe you’re capable of,
is one way to reaffirm that you’re alive. Whether your risk-taking involves
roller-blading blindfolded and nude through a busy airport or simply writing a
haiku and posting it on the internet, I encourage you to go for it. Try
something you’ve always wanted to try. Take a class on a subject matter that
baffles and excites you. Risk ridicule by performing, painting, playing music
or dancing. Tell the waiter at an authentic Chinese restaurant to bring you
something exotic.
Are there
consequences for risky behavior? Sure there are. What you have to weigh is
whether those repercussions are worse than knowing that fear kept you from
living your life to it’s fullest potential.
