It was easy for Yoda to poo poo adventure. He’d had decades of it. He’d earned his time of quiet contemplation–before Luke Skywalker and the Ghost of Jedis Past came stomping at his cubby hole.

I live a sheltered life. Despite having lived, for a few months, in one of the worst neighborhoods of Cincinnati. Despite helping to start a few small arts groups. Despite driving around parts of the country in a beat-up van. Despite remodeling a restaurant dining room overnight without permission. All of these things don’t matter, because today I seek out no more than my daily routine.

Maybe I feel guilty; I think I should see the worst of the world to find the beauty therein, or at least do something about it. Certainly, that’s true. I’m a social jack ass who does no real good. Or, maybe I hate that the nearest I get to other countries is watching a movie.

Really, it’s just fear. Fear of people, fear of new situations, fear of not knowing what to do, of looking stupid, of not getting along, of being laughed at or made fun of or getting my ass kicked. Not all that fear is unjustified, and not all of it will go away. I’m a quiet soul. But. But, but but. . . .

I’ve been lucky to have friends who go where I won’t, and who take me along. But what a chore that must be. What a charity, even if they don’t see it that way. I may need their help a little while longer. I may fail. But the world sure as hell isn’t waiting for me. Trees fall in the forest, whether I’m there to hear or not.

I’ll either do some new things, or I won’t, and the fact is it will only matter to me. But feeling like crap about staying at home should tell me something, right? If my own head is saying “get the fuck out there”, then what do I get for ignoring it?

Find out, will I?