Daring Greatly

"What do you think we can do about it?"

I thought he was asking a rhetorical question, but he made a gesture with his eyebrows urging

me to answer.

"To live as happily as possible," I said.

"Right! But do you know anyone who lives happily?"

My first impulse was to say yes; I thought I could use a number of people I knew as examples.

On second thought, however, I knew my effort would only be an empty attempt at exonerating

myself.

"No," I said. "I really don't."

"I do," don Juan said. "There are some people who are very careful about the nature of their

acts. Their happiness is to act with the full knowledge that they don't have time; therefore, their

acts have a peculiar power; their acts have a sense of..."

Don Juan seemed to be at a loss for words. He scratched his temples and smiled. Then

suddenly he stood up as if he were through with our conversation. I beseeched him to finish what

he was telling me. He sat down and puckered up his lips.

"Acts have power," he said. "Especially when the person acting knows that those acts are his

last battle. There is a strange consuming happiness in acting with the full knowledge that

whatever one is doing may very well be one's last act on earth. I recommend that you reconsider

your life and bring your acts into that light."

I disagreed with him. Happiness for me was to assume that there was an inherent continuity to

my acts and that I would be able to continue doing, at will, whatever I was doing at the moment,

especially if I was enjoying it. I told him that my disagreement was not a banal one but stemmed

from the conviction that the world and myself had a determinable continuity.

Don Juan seemed to be amused by my efforts to make sense. He laughed, shook his head,

scratched his hair, and finally when I talked about a "determinable continuity" threw his hat to the

ground and stamped on it.

I ended up laughing at his clowning. 

"You don't have time, my friend," he said. "That is the misfortune of human beings. None of us 

have sufficient time, and your continuity has no meaning in this awesome, mysterious world.

"Your continuity only makes you timid," he said. "Your acts cannot possibly have the flair, the

power, the compelling force of the acts performed by a man who knows that he is fighting his last

battle on earth. In other words, your continuity does not make you happy or powerful."

I admitted that I was afraid of thinking I was going to die and accused him of causing great

apprehension in me with his constant talk and concern about death.

"But we are all going to die," he said.

He pointed towards some hills in the distance.

"There is something out there waiting for me, for sure; and I will join it, also for sure. But perhaps you're different and death is not waiting for you at all."

He laughed at my gesture of despair.

"I don't want to think about it, don Juan."

"Why not?"

"It is meaningless. If it is out there waiting for me why should I worry about it?"

"I didn't say that you have to worry about it."

"What am I supposed to do then?"

"Use it. Focus your attention on the link between you and your death, without remorse or

sadness or worrying. Focus your attention on the fact you don't have time and let your acts flow

accordingly. Let each of your acts be your last battle on earth. Only under those conditions will

your acts have their rightful power. Otherwise they will be, for as long as you live, the acts of a

timid man."

"Is it so terrible to be a timid man?"

"No. It isn't if you are going to be immortal, but if you are going to die there is no time for

timidity, simply because timidity makes you, cling to something that exists only in your thoughts.

It soothes you while everything is at a lull, but then the awesome, mysterious world will open its

mouth for you, as it will open for every one of us, and then you will realize that your sure ways

were not sure at all. Being timid prevents us from examining and exploiting our lot as men."

"It is not natural to live with the constant idea of our death, don Juan."

"Our death is waiting and this very act we're performing now may well be our last battle on

earth," he replied in a solemn voice. "I call it a battle because it is a struggle. Most people move

from act to act without any struggle or thought. A hunter, on the contrary, assesses every act; and

since he has an intimate knowledge of his death, he proceeds judiciously, as if every act were his

last battle. Only a fool would fail to notice the advantage a hunter has over his fellow men. A

hunter gives his last battle its due respect. It's only natural that his last act on earth should be the 

best of himself. It's pleasurable that way. It dulls the edge of his fright."

"You are right," I conceded. "It's just hard to accept."

"It'll take years for you to convince yourself and then it'll take years for you to act accordingly.

I only hope you have time left."

An excerpt from Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda