When I was 14 years old I stood outside the boys’ locker room after a high school basketball game with a team from Australia to ask if anyone knew Daniel Johns from the teen rock band silverchair.
If you know me at all you’ve heard the name. At the time my entire existence was meaningless except for my undying love for a boy I had never met. But I KNEW. We were soul mates. Both of us would be ok if we could just find each other. In fact, the whole world might be ok.
And so I set out to get famous.
Clearly we could never get married if he didn’t know who I was, and—ahoy!—there was a guitar. (Hindsight is now telling me that becoming a folk singer was not the *quickest* or best way to get famous, but it was somewhat convenient and promising at the time.)
Nothing was going to stop me. I researched exchange programs to try and get placed in his town, I begged my mom for plane tickets to Toronto (from Washington state) because at an in studio performance I was SURE to meet him (and then, of course, Voila!). I talked about him to everyone.
And stood outside the boys’ locker room soliciting total strangers for information.
This was a thing I wanted badly enough to do whatever it took.
I didn’t care what anyone thought.
And I wish I felt that way about anything again, ever.
More often it’s like the Meatloaf song: “I would do anything for ________, but I won’t do that…”
“That” generally referring to being too uncomfortable, risking too much, compromising dignity, facing fears, or, as it’s sometimes blatantly said, going balls to the wall, doing our best, giving our all.
God forbid we actually give our all to something and fail.
God really forbid we give our all to something and succeed.
I want things. I look ahead to my life and I see a lot. I see things I can’t fathom not happening, loves I can’t fathom not loving, dreams-come-true I can’t fathom not coming true.
What am I willing to do for them? Am I willing to do that?