Unwrapping Fear

I’ve spent a good portion of my life seeking and resisting change in equal parts. Seeking it from a place of scarcity or restlessness (surely there is something better for me, I would think, even though I could see with my own eyes that nothing about my current conditions was particularly egregious). And also seeking it from a place of true listening and even a sense of being called to something I could not yet know existed yet knew, deep within in that place that doesn’t have language or logic, that it was real.

The former has caused me to spin my wheels, brood, and undoubtedly miss out on some of what was right in front of me. The latter has led to moments of chaos and wonder alike. And the combination has flowed together, like water carving the path that is my path. It is never static, no matter how unmoving things may seem on a day to day or week to week basis.

Look back over a month, a year, a decade, and change is evident everywhere -- the places that were sharp have softened, the obsessions that once burned a hole in my belly mellowed or simply evaporated, like a fog burned off revealing a clearer view of what was always in plain sight.

These days, I still fear change when it represents the possibility of loss — and doesn't all change entail loss of some kind? — but I’ve also developed some skills for how I relate to this fear. After all, fear bears information. If I take a moment to recognize a fear as a fear, to name it, to acknowledge it and create a bit of space between it and myself, I am able to glean what information it may contain, and whether those contents are useful.

Fear comes to the side porch of my heart and leaves a package by the mailbox. It is wrapped in brown paper, indistinct and unembellished. Perhaps there is something written in sharpie; at first glance, I think it says “URGENT” next to my name and address. How did it get my address, I wonder momentarily, before recalling that fear lives here, too, and always knows how to find me. 

I carry the box inside, hoping it’s not an explosive. In the past, my chest would have tightened, cheeks hot, heart rate spiking, as my mind would have raced with the possible contents. I place the package on the table and go stand by the sink, drinking a glass of water slowly, feeling each gulp, the room-temperature liquid sliding easily down my throat and cooling my insides. I reach for the blue kitchen scissors, and carefully remove the paper before opening the seams of the box. What will it hold? 

The box is filled with smaller boxes. I begin to open them, one at a time. The first has the letter “I” on the top. I open it and see a substance I can only describe as stagnant, like goop, honestly a little smelly, with no real shape or form to speak of. I wasn’t grateful enough. I wasn’t thoughtful enough. I wasn’t thorough enough. I rushed. I projected. I didn’t listen well enough. I caused harm or offense unknowingly. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t kind. I wasn’t all-knowing - as if I was ever meant to be some kind of omniscient being rather than a mere human. I put the top back on, a bit disgusted and a little sad. A wave of compassion comes over me as I shake the contents into the trash and toss the box into the recycling bin in the pantry. 

I continue. Box after box after box. I open them slowly at first and then with more energy, until black ribbon litters the floor and my trepidation has turned to pure interest. Box after box. I stack the lids from largest to smallest as I empty the contents onto the table. There are whole boxes from the past, fears about what I did or didn’t do, did or didn’t say, could have done better. These I label “regrets.”

Examine, toss, recycle. I repeat this again and again, until a trash bag is bursting with unknown disasters and ruin, death and disconnect, heartache and misunderstanding. 

Hours have passed. The light has changed in the room and I realize it’s getting late; the sun has moved across the south and made its way to the western horizon, where it peers golden through the last of the leaves. I know this season well, when things fall away, when that which no longer serves can decay and nourish what will be a new season of growth. But first, the winter. First, the quiet. 

I carry the trash down to the big bins in the garage, wondering if the landlord will notice anything different this week. For though they are full, they are empty. Each of the boxes inside the first box revealed to me myself — the fears I carry, and the ones I can leave behind lest they overtake me, clogging my mind and clouding my heart. 

Back inside, a hot bath beckons. I run the water almost too hot to stand, slowly lowering myself and adding some cold as I adjust to the temperature. Hands, feet, legs, arms, belly, shoulders, back, breasts. Immersed here, my hair fanned out around my head, only my face above the surface, I close my eyes.

Breathe through my nose — so much seeking, so much running and ruminating. I have lived in fear’s grip long enough. Breathe out through my mouth — something releases, a stone set free, an obstacle worn down by nothing more than the passage of time.

There is nothing left to do but soak here, dry myself off, and let the body rest. Tomorrow will come all by itself, and if I’m lucky, I’ll wake, with more space to welcome whatever the day brings.