Start a revolution

Two decades ago a high school friend sent me a t-shirt with "Stop bitching, start a revolution" printed in white on black. It terrified me. I love the idea of taking action, especially when that action is driven by passion and gift. But the shirt leaves an acrid in-your-face taste in my mouth. It finds its way to the bottom of the drawer year after year, but I truly want to be the kind of person that wears that shirt. So I find myself cleaning out drawers and closets for the annual Spring/Fall exchange, and find the shirt yet again. So I fold it on top of the stack and place it in plain sight on the chair in the corner, demanding a decision. Do I place it in the discards, or keep it, and after all these years, wear it.

The shirt is truly a presence in the room, perched a little higher, a little better than the others. It dares me to put it on. No wonder I am afraid of the thing.

"Do I have to start a revolution in order to be enough?" I ask no one in particular. I wonder if the shirt has somehow made me feel inferior because I have yet to start a real revolution, but still I have complaints. 

And then it comes to me. I haven't failed the spirit of the shirt because I haven't found a way to establish world peace or open a women's health clinic in Tanzania. Taking action beyond status quo by definition is revolution. If I find a way to do my own work, and support others create their best lives, I am a revolutionary. I put the shirt back in the drawer, on the top of the stack.