My grandfather gave me two pieces of advice.
The first, always make sure you're with someone who likes you more than you like them.
And the second, have fun, travel, and be young while you can.
It kind of bothered me when he told me the first one. It struck me as a very sad thing to say. In the least, I hoped I would never be the person to hold myself back or be happy being in control in a relationship. I could see the draw of it: if you're never vulnerable, you will never have to leave yourself open to get hurt, damaged. Of course, I was very young when he told me this, filled with romantic ideas about love and how relationships worked. I probably had little to no experience in the rocky field. All I knew was that when love happened, it would be perfect, and easy. Rare, I imagined, but effortless.
I am no expert in love. But I do know what bitter and exacting disappointment feels like, I know the pain that comes when things go wrong, and I know just how fragile my little heart can be. After awhile, I began to believe in my grandfather's advice against my own reason. It was kind of weird to realize I'd become the person I never wanted to be, but that was life, right? It's a hard habit to break out of, encasing yourself with security. But I think it's almost certainly worth it.
When I actually think about my grandfather, I imagine him as a photograph I once took, wrinkled hand resting on the arm of an equally old and beaten chair on the porch. I think of rough skin that grabbed my wrists and wrestled me playfully into submission, of hands that have done so many things I'll never even know or understand. I'm afraid that's how it always is; we only ever get to see singular parts of those closest to us no matter how hard we look; it's so easy and common to miss the whole. I don't think he ever followed his own advice, although perhaps he wished he could have. It seems the simpler thing to never be vulnerable, but although he was a tough, weathered man on the outside, he was more dedicated to taking care of my grandmother than anyone else could have, not in softness but in hardness. He was famous for saying clever things like the first bit of advice that made people chuckle, but deep down he was a much gentler person; it just took the right way of looking to see that.
I think, in retrospect, I can only choose one of these to follow. Fundamentally, they are opposite ideas. One, protect yourself and take the careful route. Or two, dive in headfirst and follow your passion. Really, I'll end up remembering the second piece of advice, which I take to mean, go out and make the most of it. Common sense and responsibility threaten to take over my life every day, but I'm trying to take his wisdom and just do what I'd like to do. Coming from someone who's seen so much more than I have, I've accepted that he had a unique view of what is truly important in this crazy life.
I miss him very much. I wonder how many things he told me that just passed right by. I think about him often, and the type of person I want to be. Going in headfirst.
Jennifer
