Say Something

The Stage by Simon Scott

In what is probably a good example of biting off more than I can chew, I’m going to try to blog about beginning to blog.

Thinking about this course, it occurred to me recently that I really don’t know anything about anything. That’s not strictly true, of course; I know enough about enough to navigate through most days. But I started to think: what do I know enough about to tell someone else? Would anyone hire me as an instructor of anything? Highly unlikely.

I feel I have only a few true skills, some acquired, some inborn: I am an absolute expert at avoiding (particularly at “laying down and avoiding” as the Pythons might say). Some might call this laziness, but there’s too much anxiety involved for that. I am pretty good at cat care, but for our instructor’s sake, I’ll forswear that discussion for now. In the inborn category, I have a spookily accurate, almost photographic, short-term memory, useful for proofreading. However, when I say “short-term” I mean exactly that. I can’t remember my last birthday, whom I saw that movie with or how it ended, where I spent last Christmas or New Year’s, my childhood, or other such details.

This skill shortage does not prevent me from concocting theories on a near-constant basis and trying to link world and cultural events that "prove" them. I cherish my favourite theories like beloved pets; they’ve evolved and matured along with me. But they are shared with only a few confidants—mostly those who I am fairly sure will agree with me. The choir, in other words.

So now we get to the crux of it: if I am unqualified to pass along most forms of knowledge, what qualifies me to comment on anyone else’s knowledge or experience? I realize this is mainly an issue of insecurity—who grants any of us the authority to make our opinions known? But even if I can convince myself I have something to say, actually saying it is an entirely different matter.

Luckily, there’s only one thing worse than the paralyzing anxiety of sticking my two cents out there for all to see, and that’s keeping them to myself. The urge to create is elemental; if it’s suppressed, I believe it worms its way out in the form of unhealthy behaviours. So expressing ourselves is essential to our mental (some would say spiritual) health.

But there’s another reason to share, and that is, it contributes to personal growth. Experiencing art teaches us who we are. We are constantly searching for ourselves in various artistic products. We ask ourselves, “Do I like this?” “Is this something I can relate to?” “Do I understand the behaviour of this character?” “Am I like him (or her)?”

By adding my voice to the discussion, I can discover the views of others and adapt my own. I also get out of the echo chamber of my own head and step into the real world of others’ perspectives. Relationships are potential sites of growth; avoidance results only in stasis. As an entropy-denier, this is a difficult hurdle for me. But I try to remember E.M. Forster’s exhortation, “Only connect.” If our connections are all that matter, all that live on, shouldn’t expanding the boundaries of our conversations be our primary goal?

Like most of my theories, this all sounds great in my head, but of course is terrifying to put into practice. Can my need to express myself, to grow or die, to indulge my curiosity, to persuade others, overcome the performance anxiety? But maybe these are the wrong questions. Maybe it’s about having the courage to do it anyway, to admit my limitations, to see that they are universally shared, to abandon perfection, and to step off the next cliff and speak up. Leap and the net will appear, as they say.

Here’s another good quote I saw recently, from Theodore Roethke: “Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.”

With a mix of trepidation, faith, and anticipation, I’m stepping off.