This poem was the first I wrote for Poetry Writing in Fall 2015, and it was inspired by the discussion we had about the necessity for vulnerability in the peer reviews we would be doing. We watched this TED Talk by Brené Brown:
Vulnerability
By C. Randall Nicholson
There’s a certain amount of vulnerability inherent in being mortal, but I try to keep it to a minimum. I hope to never become as old and frail as my great-grandfather, who would probably die if he fell down. I will never go skydiving in a million years. But I learned a long time ago that death is nothing to be afraid of, and physical pain isn’t the worst kind. I don’t worry much about it.
I worry instead about the shallow and fake people, prancing around like actors in a comedy of errors and reciting from a script that no one has ever bothered to show me, spewing out only the things they think I want to hear; and just waiting, holding out for a moment when I let my guard down, so they can exploit that vulnerability. Why? Who knows? So I withdraw from the whole silly game and stay where it’s safe. I don’t let myself be vulnerable, or, if I must, I don’t let anyone see. I don’t let them get close enough to see.
People have always told me to be confident. Confidence is attractive, they say. Confidence is key. I say that confidence breeds complacence. I’ve seen what happens when I’m confident. My confidence works out about as well as Icarus’s confidence when he flew too close to the sun, or the confidence of General Custer right before his last stand, or the confidence of the dodo bird that never conceived of anyone ever wanting to hurt it.
They say, “Just be yourself and people will like you.” I say, “That only works if you’re ‘normal’, or at least have a socially acceptable form of weirdness.”
They say, “There’s no growth in the comfort zone, and there’s no comfort in the growth zone.” I say, “Growth is overrated. I prefer comfort.”
They say, “Come out of your shell.” I say, “Some animals have shells to avoid being eaten, and some people have shells for a similar reason.”
They say, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” I say, “Then screw it.”
Simon and Garfunkel famously sang, “If I’d never loved I never would have cried.” I don’t think they were recommending it, but I made it one of my mantras anyway, after experience proved it to be true. I’m not a rock, but I am an island.
Sometimes I wish my shell was more literal, or more of a giant egg, I guess, a solid personal bubble where I could just be sheltered cozy and warm from the storms of life forever, like an embryo in an amniotic sac, listening to the Shelley Duvall lullaby CD I still cherish from infancy. But I can’t do that.
There’s a certain amount of vulnerability inherent in being mortal.
That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
I worry instead about the shallow and fake people, prancing around like actors in a comedy of errors and reciting from a script that no one has ever bothered to show me, spewing out only the things they think I want to hear; and just waiting, holding out for a moment when I let my guard down, so they can exploit that vulnerability. Why? Who knows? So I withdraw from the whole silly game and stay where it’s safe. I don’t let myself be vulnerable, or, if I must, I don’t let anyone see. I don’t let them get close enough to see.
People have always told me to be confident. Confidence is attractive, they say. Confidence is key. I say that confidence breeds complacence. I’ve seen what happens when I’m confident. My confidence works out about as well as Icarus’s confidence when he flew too close to the sun, or the confidence of General Custer right before his last stand, or the confidence of the dodo bird that never conceived of anyone ever wanting to hurt it.
They say, “Just be yourself and people will like you.” I say, “That only works if you’re ‘normal’, or at least have a socially acceptable form of weirdness.”
They say, “There’s no growth in the comfort zone, and there’s no comfort in the growth zone.” I say, “Growth is overrated. I prefer comfort.”
They say, “Come out of your shell.” I say, “Some animals have shells to avoid being eaten, and some people have shells for a similar reason.”
They say, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” I say, “Then screw it.”
Simon and Garfunkel famously sang, “If I’d never loved I never would have cried.” I don’t think they were recommending it, but I made it one of my mantras anyway, after experience proved it to be true. I’m not a rock, but I am an island.
Sometimes I wish my shell was more literal, or more of a giant egg, I guess, a solid personal bubble where I could just be sheltered cozy and warm from the storms of life forever, like an embryo in an amniotic sac, listening to the Shelley Duvall lullaby CD I still cherish from infancy. But I can’t do that.
There’s a certain amount of vulnerability inherent in being mortal.
That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson