Talk With Me - Being Dauntless

is it inherited or created ?

Dauntless is one of those words that moves me. It inspires me to continue reaching towards the right to claim this descriptor as my own.

This word has eased its way into my conscious thought today, and I wonder why I love it so.

Not all the synonyms are appealing. I select the ones I believe I most aspire to be: brave, valorous, heroic, courageous, fearless, intrepid, lionhearted, determined. And I eschew those with connotations that imply the very things I hope I am not: reckless, impetuous, daredevil, meddlesome, hotheaded, madcap, overconfident. (Does anyone still use the word madcap nowadays? I admit it’s a fabulously evocative word, tho not one I aspire to.)

I have not always worn the word dauntless very well, with all its colorful imaginings. I was quiet as a child, a wallflower really. Grade schools can be viperous cages that terrorize those unprepared. It was my way to find nooks of calm instead of standing toe to toe with the ones who delight in humiliating others. I could not have worn the dauntless badge back then. I found myself retreating into books, reading in empty classrooms, or seeking refuge in the company of our band leader, the wonderful Mr. Bob Corley.

Was it the glorious moments that taught me bravery? Mr. Corley and I both donned sousaphones and created a “teaberry shuffle” routine for our band in 1969. All six foot something of him and all five foot two nuthin’ of me figured if the two of us could do the shuffle while wearing sousaphones, anyone could do it! It became our signature move as our tiny band marched in the state competition. Tho it is a grand high school memory, no. I did not learn bravery then.

There I am, second row, fourth from the right, bass clarinet in hand.

Did I learn to be dauntless when someone told me they knew I could succeed? No. I don’t think so. I earned some kudos and a couple brass-lapel-pin awards back then, yet no one cared. And while the taunts and the awards from high school both dangle within my memory today none of them defined me. I was barely myself during those years and spent more time avoiding mirrors than looking in them.

I turn the word dauntless over in my thoughts. I am beginning to realize that suffering forged this word within my heart. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I also cannot imagine how else I might have grown to wear the word dauntless with ease.

Many stories come to mind, and I wonder where being dauntless began. I suppose that’s not so very relevant now, is it? Like the pottery mug I hold in my hand, I was created through slow changes. Profound long term weathering of rocks breaks down the rock essence into clay. The clay being turned on a wheel forms the mug, the mug is fragile and doesn’t hold anything until it’s dried out and fired, glazed and fired once again.

I have written before about my knowing how to grieve thru difficulty on my own. It is a path worn thru my soul from the many times I have walked it.

Abuse as a child. Having no one there to celebrate the moments that mattered most to me in my teen years. An unwanted pregnancy during college, the challenge of traveling for an abortion the first year they were legal and walking in that space alone. The soul shattering fear of having a man chase me with a knife until I smashed him over the head with a revere wear pot. Hitting rock bottom and beginning once again. These things are a few that happened before I was thirty. Each is a story of its own.

I’m not seeking the “aww-there-theres” nor the “oh-my-god-that-was-terribles”. I share them only to open a crack within the dauntless armor I wear today. So much more has happened within the next 41 years. Perhaps those tales will emerge in time. In this now, what I am most hoping you understand is that I do not arrive here having never been smashed, rather my compassion and courage comes from having lived it too.

My dauntless armor was born from surviving. No matter what or when things occurred, I found my own path to stand up again.

I trust myself to “dare” nowadays. Being smashed doesn’t always mean death. I know. I am not reckless nor impetuous. I draw upon my knowing in each moment, and am brutally aware of how much I still have to learn.

I trust myself to begin again. I trust myself to remain faithful to my values. I trust my courage to show up when this Mama Bear needs to stand.

Being dauntless, for me, doesn’t mean I go seeking out danger or battle on a daily basis. No. I tend to live quite quietly. I encourage my cat, Jose, to not scare the mallards who clean up under the bird feeders by explaining how much I enjoy them. (He appears to have taken note and behaves accordingly) Now, the geese, (hundreds of them) are a whole ‘nother thing. When Jose sees them scavenging too close to my patio, his small chitters begin, increasing in volume until I get up. I take notice and thank him, rising to shoo them off with a wave of my arm. They have plenty of grass, and no need for my garden. Jose and I make a good team. These are the levels my “battlefields” occur upon. And while I do not walk away from challenges, I no longer seek them out. I have more fruitful ways to spend this now.

Being dauntless means I trust myself.

Being dauntless allows me to move more peacefully and with less trepidation about what “might” arrive. I know that I can respond. I carry the reservoir of strength within me. Knowing this, I choose to spend my moments looking outside my small home, as I await the snowflakes that are promised tomorrow.

Is there a word you wear with honor, a descriptor you hold up as a goal? I’d love to hear your story and your thoughts.