Lloyd Rang

By [courage] I don’t mean the lack of fear which some people have, which enables them to do very dangerous or frightening things because they have no idea what it is to be afraid. I mean a courage which overcomes real fear, while actually experiencing it. – Peter Hitchens  

The elderly drive slowly and cautiously. They tend to do everything that way. For example, last week I was trapped behind an elderly woman whose slow, methodical trip down the cereal aisle reminded me of someone defusing a bomb – like the shelves were filled with brightly coloured boxes of spring-loaded explosives.
When I was younger, that kind of caution confused me. I figured if I was old, I’d want to make every second count. I wouldn’t pause in the bank for chit chat. I’d drive fast and take chances. It made no sense to me that the elderly – who have relatively little time left – would be so hesitant, tentative and fearful.
But as I’ve gotten older myself, I’ve realized that life is a lot like a stock portfolio: the more years you have invested in the world, the more risk-averse you become. And, the longer you live, the more risks you see around you.
For example: when you’re a kid, a stick on the ground can be many things – a magical sword, a marshmallow-roaster, a beehive poker. When you’re older, a stick on the ground is nothing but a tripping hazard and a ticket to a broken hip. As you age, experience tells you the world is a dangerous place. It’s nothing but sticks and stones.
Like when a classmate dies in an accident. That sticks. Or when a close friend dies of cancer. That sticks. And all our other, smaller fears – whether it’s a fear of spiders, commitment or circus clowns – which just get bigger and burrow deeper into our psyches and take up permanent residence there.
Take my fear of heights, for example. In the summers when I was in university, I used to work at Dofasco. I’d hang five stories up above vats of bubbling steel with no safety harness. And in my 20s, I once free-climbed the 100m walls of Algonquin’s Barron Canyon on a whim. But back then, with fewer years invested in the planet, I was far more likely to take risks.
These days, heights make me nervous. Which is why, during a vacation in Belize, just as we were about to rappel into a 300 foot-deep hole, I almost chickened out. And, yet, a few minutes later I was standing on the canyon floor with a hearty yell and a clean pair of underwear to my credit. Not only because I wanted to conquer my own fears, but because I wanted to help conquer my son’s too. And not his fear of heights – because, truthfully, they don’t bug him very much. In fact, he’s a really brave kid. But there are a few things that scare him. He’s a kid, after all – and all kids are afraid of something. In the past, when I’ve tried to help him with his fears, he’s said: “Well, yeah, dad, that’s easy for you to say: you’re not afraid of ANYTHING.”

Facing fear
I get it. When you’re seven years old, your dad is like Chuck Norris. Your dad doesn’t fear the world – the world fears your dad. And for generations, dads have let their kids believe they were tough, strong and fearless. But for me and my son, that wasn’t going to work. If I was going to help him, he needed to be able to relate to me.
And that’s why, before we went rappelling into Belize’s famed “Black Hole Drop,” I made sure I told him I was scared of heights. Really scared. And I let him see me being scared, and go through with the jump anyway. I’d like to say it was all part of a carefully crafted plan. But the truth is, it was a spur-of-the moment lesson that paid off.
A few days ago, when Cameron was feeling anxious, I reminded him of how scared I’d been, during that climb. And I said to him: “Son, everyone is afraid of something. Courage isn’t about getting over your fear – it’s about getting through it.” And he gave me a big hug. And darn it all, if he didn’t get through that anxious moment like a trooper.
I was very proud of him, because now he gets to think of himself as the brave kid. The courageous kid. And yet he couldn’t have become that kid if he hadn’t first been the scared kid.
It’s a lesson I hope to remember. Because, letting go – in faith – is the greatest act of bravery there is. I hope it comes to mind when I’m a senior. Especially on the days when I’m feeling threatened by the other cars on the highway, fretting about the musical tastes of young people or feeling intimidated by a box of CoCo Puffs.
I’m under no illusions. I already know I’m going to get more fearful as I get older. A growing list of anxieties is as inevitable as crows’ feet, grey hair and wanting kids to stay off your lawn. But letting those fears define you – that’s a choice. And not just for the elderly but for all of us, in big ways and small, every day.
Because you can choose to see the object on the path as a tripping hazard. Or you can choose to be happy that you found a new walking stick, pick it up, and make it your own.