People used to tell me I had a lot of passion. I remember when I was still in school I had a professor praise the fire in my essays, the conviction with which I defended everything I held dear in this world--which, since I was young and stupid then (or anyway younger and stupider), I'm of course a little embarrassed about now. But around that time there was a girl who loved my convictions, too. She worshiped the ground I walked on, and sometimes I think everyone needs a little bit of that.
We drifted apart, as young lovers do, and I hadn't thought about her for years until out of the blue she ran into me on the bus. It turned out she lived a few blocks away from me and I had fond memories of her and anyway I'm terrible at saying no, so she had me over for tea, and we chatted about life and played that game old lovers play where they try to figure out what sort of meeting this is going to be.
She told me I'd changed. "I'm not sure what it is," she said. "It's like you used to burn with conviction and now . . . I don't know. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."
I think back when she'd known me I would have argued, or at least insisted that she explain what she meant. Instead I just let it soak in, and wondered and worried until finally I figured it out. See, I'd never felt fiery or passionate, even when those were the words people used to describe me. That was just what my uncertainty looked like, because back then I was afraid of it. Over the years I came to love it.
