AJ Alanson, Author

A friend said something clarifying this morning: courage isn’t evenly distributed. We were talking about people in general but I think it can be applied to the individual as well. Heck, I even confuse myself. I mean why do I stand up in this area of life and shrink, slither off, or worse, run screaming in another? People might call me a few colorful terms, but lacking self-awareness was never one of them. I write to know what I think, and I write a lot, but there are still times when my instantaneous responses to life’s 98mph curveballs still surprise me. And I’m no spring chicken.

How I can’t possibly predict how other people will react, or judge them, for that matter, when I don’t even know what I’ll do? Of course, we control these gut reactions as we age—or we’re supposed to—but why are they there in the first place? I think it comes down to our accumulated experience. Good outcomes in a similar situation can give me courage, while bad outcomes, having scarred over in self-protection often make me stiff, blind, and fearful.

But I posit our uneven courage is more a response to the unexpectedness rather than the unexpected itself. By definition, experiences happen to us, not with us, or for us, or against us, but upon us. Experience, is at it’s core, the onslaught of the unpredictable and often undeserved chaos. As much as some of us would like to believe otherwise, we can’t possibly be in control of our experiences. We do, let’s say, control how we react to them—right up and until we have built a series of paths, ruts perhaps, that we predictably take when faced with similar situations. And therefore, stop choosing how we react and begin to ingrain a pattern. Hence, I would argue, our experiences—or rather, how we perceive them and judge them—molds us over time.

For instance, if I’m the person who fixates on the bad outcomes, well, I suspect that’s where grouchy old curmudgeons come from. As in, I will approach every new obstacle with my backside to it. On the other hand, if I have, over my years, tried to find the silver lining, reveling disproportionately in the successes and unexpected good fortunes, well, I might just become one of those annoying shuffleboard queens of the retirement village, endlessly organizing pot lucks, and handwriting all my greeting cards.

Hate me if you must, but — and here’s the difference — if I this is who I become, I might just be brave enough to face the very chaos of aging, and still have a little leftover courage to share. At my age, from my vantage point, I think I can now confidently attest that the wolf you’ve fed over your lifetime will, in fact, consume you as you age. Might I suggest the pink, fluffy one.

And might I also suggest that the “how” we meet each challenge isn’t the part that can be labeled courageous or not. We have unpredictable, visceral responses, after all. No, it’s the “meet” that counts. Because true courage is knowing all this crazy stuff exists out there—and inside of us—and still striving to face it head-on anyway.

The image below is not the ethereal flower garden basic, Queen Ann’s Lace, A.K.A. the wild carrot, but it’s domesticated, well-behaved version, the vegetable garden basic, the edible carrot. Nooooo, you gasp, but it’s true. A late planting dug last year obviously missed this guy or we would have eaten him by now. It came up dead center in my raised bed, almost like I’d planned it, but I didn’t. Unexpected, isn’t it? That’s the point.

It is our reactions to life’s experiences that become the leftovers—forgotten and discarded. Just something in our past quietly lying around, dormant. Work we’ve already put in and more often than not, without immediate gratification. I truly believe the patient, hidden ground work we lay builds our very future. We can’t predict when it’s going to pay off or even the shape it will take when it emerges. Will we sadly channel our innermost big fat chicken, or rise as a glorious edible carrot striving to be the most spectacular flower in the garden?

By comparison, this overachieving glamour carrot stands amongst this year’s normal carrots as a brilliant testament to the potential impact of our past experiences. Now, you’re right, I can’t eat this carrot. It has become something entirely, unpredictably different, but I can sow a billion seeds with it. Mostly, it makes my life more beautiful and judging by the swarms of insects around it all day, the pollinators are pleased as well.