I come before you today bruised and battered, scabbed and turning colors. The most important decoration on my body? It’s the smile on my face. I’ve posted canary posts before about odd incidents where things went out of control, but this isn’t a canary post. In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite of a canary post.

When I was a kid, I was fearless. I didn’t let broad waters, high cliffs, or even revolutionaries stand in the way of getting out and doing things. I fell down not one but at least two of those cliffs. I once bicycled from the outskirts into downtown Athens, Greece because I didn’t understand how hand brakes worked on a borrowed bike. What did I do then? I got my bearings and pedaled back home as soon as I’d slowed down. Hey, you can get going really fast when you go down Devil’s Hill (our name for it) without knowing how to brake). I back-pedaled my heart out, but nothing ever happened.) Still, I didn’t panic. I treated it like an adventure.

I explored an island, snuck out in the middle of a revolution to get candy at the corner store, and half a dozen other adventures that I won’t mention for the sake of my parents’ health and sanity.

Why is this relevant? Because as I grew up, that part of me got lost under too much work and too much awareness of my own fragility.

Okay, maybe lost is too strong a word considering some of the adventures I had when hiking with a friend in Tahoe recently. There’s still a touch of the daredevil adventuress who cares more about what’s on the other side of the hill than the smoldering remains of controlled fires on this side that would have any reasonable person turning back, but to find that touch, I had to leave my normal environment.

Here, I work two freelance jobs (writing and programming), both of which I do out of my home. On any given day, my grand outings are running my son back and forth from the high school because the bus is too crowded.

Ah, the glamorous life of a writer.

But that smile on my face isn’t because I’m bemoaning the life I lead. That would be silly since I chose this life. It’s because I’m finally learning there is no reason to become more and more cautious and locked in if I don’t want to be.

Let me catalog my injuries:

Well, the oldest is the three separate cat scratches, scabbed over and one deep enough that it hurts to the touch.

How did I get them? I have cats myself, but none of them are so feral anymore that they could be the cause. No, these scratches came from cats at the humane society where I volunteer. When I’m there, I choose the hard cases, the cats that hold back and are afraid of people. It’s a no kill shelter, so these are the cats that will probably never be adopted. They’ll spend the remainder of their life in a single room with 10+ cats, getting more and more withdrawn as the years go by. Hmm, hadn’t thought of the parallel to me sitting at my computer all day, but there you have it.

Do I get scratched? Pretty much every visit, but it’s worth it when, after a couple weeks, one of those same cats who shrank away allows me to give a good petting. And who knows…maybe my efforts will pay off on the larger scale, and they’ll become comfortable enough to find someone who wants to take them home. These are gorgeous cats who do a great job taking care of themselves in admittedly stressful conditions. If only they’d step up and say hi, someone would spring them and give them a home to lay claim to.

These cats wouldn’t have that chance if people like me play the cautious route. If we hold back because of the likelihood of getting scratched, they’ll just tuck themselves in a corner and be overlooked.

Enough about the shelter though. My other injuries are much more spectacular. My right elbow is swollen and black and blue from about two inches above down to three below. My opposite inner knee is not quite as swollen, but when the bruising comes up, it’ll be a sight to see.

These are the bruises I’m prouder off. The cat scratches were gained in service to lost cats and my youngest, who wants to be a veterinarian. These? They were in service of nothing but pure fun.

I went with my husband and my youngest to a roller-skating rink as a company event. I have a set of rollerblades. I’ve used them many a time but always with an underlying fear, a caution that keeps my knees stiff and my speed down.

I don’t know what exactly got into me–maybe it was wearing old-style skates or the music–but that adventurous nature appeared and I was dancing on skates. Okay, I wasn’t doing anything fancy for anyone else, but I was doing a heck of a lot more than I’ve dared to in years.

The bruises were simple. I tried going fast. No problem. However, turning at that speed was beyond me. I decided ditching on the floor was better than going flying into a concrete (padded) wall. The second time, I just failed to sync with my husband when we were skating holding hands.

Yes, I got hurt. Yes, I’ll be sore for a while. But I let myself take the chance of getting hurt in order to challenge myself, to test my limits and have fun.

Okay, that’s a long way to get to the point, but without context it’s both too simple and too easy to dismiss. As the work piles up, as I’m too tired, too distracted, too interested in rest rather than effort, life falls by the wayside. It’s so easy to make excuses, to blame a lack of time or priorities or something else, but the person willing to leap, willing to risk getting hurt in order to act and be a part of life, that’s the person I want to nurture. I want to get my bruises by zigzagging around a roller-skating rink, not tripping over a box as I sneak into bed after everyone else has already gone to sleep.

So tell me, how do you stay in touch with your daredevil self, the one that considers the rewards worth the risks? How do you remember to live this life of ours instead of trudging your way through it?