Brian Doyle is editor of Portland Magazine, University of Portland

Fifteen
Aw, when I was fifteen, a thousand years ago, I was a complete utter bonehead mulehead doofus too shy to even look at a girl let alone speak to her like a Human Being, and too confused and self-absorbed to notice that my parents were doing the best they could despite not having hardly ten cents between them, and too frightened of the poor and homeless and drunk and mad to ever do anything but scurry away like a skittery crab, and too annoyed with my brothers and sister to realize that brothers and sisters are a motley chaotic hilarious gift of incalculable proportions, and too agonizingly worried about Me Me Me and who I would be and what I would do and who would love me to ever actually pause from my epic self-absorption and Listen to other people and See them clear and Try to salve a little of their pain and confusion and Be all amazed and astounded by the incredible grace with which people carry their loads, and the thing is that all of us have loads, all of us have scarred hearts, and all of us are confused and muddling; so all these years later, even though I am still pretty much a bonehead doofus most of the time, or at least this is what my children tell me, I know this: You have to drop your mask. You have to not be cool. You have to reach for other people or you will live in the tight safe little horrid prison of yourself. You have to learn to shut your mouth and listen to the shivers and songs in other hearts before you ever begin to discover the incredible hymns in your own. You have to find what it is that only you can do and do it with all your might until your muscles ache and your eyes are falling out of your head and you are so tired you can't spit. The only way to find yourself is to stop looking at yourself. This took me thirty years to figure out and I stink at it but by lawd I try. Little tip: save yourself thirty years. Tell me how it goes. Send me a postcard. My quiet prayers on your voyage.