Trepidation. The word is more intriguing when we associate it with “intrepid.”
The world is filled with those of us who are not intrepid. What separates those who “do” from those who “don’t do” is whether we triumph over, or succumb to, trepidation. It’s a wonderful word.
There is a magnificent Christmas song called “Breath of Heaven.” It’s worth searching out on YouTube. The lyrics make one think about something we may not otherwise ever contemplate; though we may be aware of what impedes us, ourselves, we may not realize how common hesitation is, even among people who have done amazing things.
The first time I heard the song, I realized that I had never thought about the trepidation of others, especially people who accomplished huge things, with or without intending to. The song is written from the prospective of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Whether our own beliefs lead us to believe the story as legend or reality, we can at least acknowledge that, for her, the responsibility, as well as her personal fears and insecurities, were real and overwhelming. This song addresses her trepidation; it’s a revelation.
She wonders what she’s done to have been chosen for such a weighty task. She’s frightened. She wonders if she will be abandoned to bear the responsibility alone. She asks if she is up to the task, if she is wise enough, old enough, and if even God, himself, is sure of his choice in her. Trepidation.
What about the great Sistine Chapel? Do we ever wonder about the young artist who was given the challenge? Michelangelo was 33. He not only didn’t want to leave the project he was working on, but he did not like to paint; he was a sculptor. He was very hesitant to take the commission. He had no experience with frescos. The sheer scope of the labor was daunting, not to mention the torturous physicality of it. Though he took time off, periodically, from the intense labor to return to his sculpting, he stayed the course.
Even the great Michelangelo had a learning curve, too. Let’s look up. Though generally noticeable, usually, only after being pointed out by an expert, he made mistakes, and Michelangelo knew they were there. He didn’t fix them. The work was too delicate and intense, and he was too inexperienced. Correction was too risky. He used them as a yardstick. He learned from them. He continued creating what would become not only one of his own greatest and most identifiable works of art, but great and identifiable in general. Of course, he couldn’t have known that at the time, nor would he have been likely to believe it. He just thought of himself as a sculptor. Frescos? Really? Trepidation.
So, we feel our own trepidation. We are aware of whatever hesitation we, ourselves, have and wonder if we are capable of something we are asked, or are planning, to do … understandably so. We often want to hit ourselves in the head and say, “What was I thinking?” Personally, I’ve got a permanent dimple in one side of my skull from that very action.
Still, nearly no one ever considered what Magellan was feeling when he boarded The Trinidad. We rarely realize that most people who did, or attempted to do, remarkable things, did them with great trepidation. The fact that someone completes a miraculous accomplishment doesn’t mean that person didn’t have personal angst, hesitation and great doubt.
We have all done things we were sure we didn’t want to do, and/or weren’t sure we could do. We’ve failed; we’ve succeeded; we’ve discovered things about ourselves, our tenacity and our ability. We have climbed down from the scaffolding, stared up, seen our mistakes and carried on to complete the painting. We have broken a heavy silence with prayer. We hesitate. We doubt. We cave. We believe. We forged ahead with blind faith, questioned our worthiness, and taken on the darkness, wondering why and persevered.
I’ve often mentioned that I have a friend who says, “If you aren’t a success yet, you aren’t failing fast enough.” These are words that should defeat much trepidation, even as tough an opponent as it is.
Without blind courage and a splash of insanity, no one ever would break the perimeter. No one would ever do anything, and nothing would ever get done.
A version of this column first appeared in the Dec. 10, 2015 edition.
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