Searching For Self
Searching For Self
The quiet voice inside whispered, go. My ego shouted, but you have a to-do list you must stick to. The whisper came again, go. To go would be the more difficult path. The uncomfortable one. The one that would leave me feeling vulnerable, especially if I stumbled over my words. The last thing I wanted to do was stand up, microphone in hand, in front of a board with an impromptu two-minute speech. Surely there would be other people to speak for me. The excuses kept popping up. I have work to do; I should run, wasn’t I going to make hummus?
Then I remembered the Judge. Gavel in hand she is the deciding factor when I’m struggling with a decision on which path to follow. Who is this Judge? Me. She’s eighty-year-old me. I have come to realize that each step I take every day leads me to her. And I’m sure she’ll have lots of opinions on the decisions I’ve made with my life. So, I do my best not to let her down. I do my best to live life in a way that will make her happy. The last thing I want is for her to say, “I wish you would’ve… or Why didn’t you…”
I hopped in my car and drove into the unknown instead of staying comfortable in my routine. The Florida CRC was listening to public comments on the proposal to ban greyhound racing in Florida. Twenty years ago, when I adopted our greyhound, Anna, I had researched greyhound racing and discovered the horrors the dogs suffered. The activist in me made a bumper sticker “Greyhounds for Pets, not Profit” and stuck it on my car. Now, twenty years later there was a chance for greyhound racing to end in Florida–something I believed in. All I had to do was speak up for what I believed. It was much harder than I care to admit.
Even when I arrived at the meeting, I sat listening. I was still too frightened to fill out the form to speak. I had hoped others would, so many that I could watch safely from my seat in the audience. I listened to the breeders say the greyhounds loved to race. They claimed the crates were plenty big enough for the dogs to spend countless hours inside them. I waited for someone to tell of what happens to the puppies who aren’t fast enough, or what happens to the dogs who break legs or what happens when an owner doesn’t want to pay for a truckload of greyhounds that need to be euthanized. No one did.
I knew what I had to do. Sitting, shaking, I waited for my name to be called. School visits with prepared PowerPoints were one thing, speaking off the cuff with a giant clock counting down from two minutes in front of strangers staring from a conference table on a stage was quite another.
I told my truth. I told them what I learned and that I hoped they would approve proposal 67 to give voters a chance to ban greyhound racing in Florida. It was one of the more difficult things I’ve ever done. Afterward, the whisper said There you are. Welcome back. I walked away feeling a strength I had missed. And then my ego chimed in Okay fine now that that’s over you only have two hours to complete the rest of your list. Get to work.
Searching for my true self is an ongoing process. It often leads to places of extreme vulnerability. I’ve learned that every time I dare to follow the whisper I feel a sense of peace knowing I’m going to make my eighty-year-old self proud.
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