Vulnerable.

            Well, I went to the dentist earlier this week and found out my wisdom teeth were coming in.

So, in this post I’ll try to fulfill the expectations of my dental hygienist and let the wisdom of the ages burst from my keyboard like seeds from a dandelion, a puff of yellow brilliance in a field of green ignorance…

            Anyhow, one quote from Gatsby that really spoke to me was this one: “[Gatsby] came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendor.”

            It means something on so many levels. Up until this point, Gatsby, with his fabulous wealth and cool composure, has seemed too far above the rest of society to be considered an actual human being. But his love—an emotion that is the common weakness of all mankind—for Daisy has transformed him him from an alien-like fetus to a living, breathing child. Like an infant from the womb into the big, bad world, Gatsby is thrust from the safehouse of his wealth and social superiority; the fact that a girl makes him weak at the knees could lead to the collapse of his empire.

Yes, Gatsby is decidedly more human, and decidedly more vulnerable.

            And I thought that as we make a fresh start coming back from break, we could all try to put a little more vulnerability into our lives.

            I’ve never been one to tell my friends everything. Much like the opposite sex, I tend to bottle up my feelings and give off an aura of relaxed contentedness with my life. But I’ve realized that if we let friends into the secret realm of our problems, we build a powerful stronghold of a support system. We seem more human, more trustworthy, more vulnerable to them, so they actually want to help us.

            I’ve also realized that we can’t be calm, collected hosts like Gatsby, feigning obliviousness to the immoral actions of our friends. When we stand up and express our anger at something a loved one is doing, sure we’re expressing human emotion—a sign of weakness—but we are showing love and being the version of ourselves that we most want to be.

            Even things that make us decidedly less human but more vulnerable are important. Mother Teresa said, “If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.” If we follow this new beatitude, we will surely garner criticism from others, but we will also be placed on a higher spiritual plane than most humans. Like Gatsby’s rebirth, like the Renaissance—a rebirth of intellectual energy—we can live like Mother Teresa and have our own rebirth; though vulnerable, we will be set apart, more beautiful than the gloriously wealthy man who sets up barriers to prevent his vulnerability.

            Then we can dare to say:

            I am transformed. I am the same self I always was.

 I am anger. I am love.

I am a lowly nun and a brilliant Renaissance man.

I am vulnerable, but I am invinceable.