I’ve been struggling with internal resistance to write the pieces I want to write and thanks to the wisdom of Liz Gilbert and others inspiring teachers, it has become all too evident the resistance is a result of fear. My toddlers grow louder in their “Mommy!” cries and all the more ardent in their volume and persistence if I fail to acknowledge them directly and with concentrated and meaningful attention when they seek it, derailing anything else I might hope to do. Likewise, fear has grown increasingly belligerent, day and night, shouting ever louder anytime I dare turn my attention away from it and toward my aspirations to share my experiences and observations and connect with others in kind. So it seemed due time to give fear my concerted attention. It seemed appropriate to post my letter to my fear as an act of defiance (channeling that old inner teenager can be useful sometimes!) and show fear it has not derailed my drive to write and share.
Fear,
I want to do the gracious thing and follow the wisdom of Buddhist sages and the poet Rumi. So hearing your persistent banging on my door, invite you in for tea. And so I shall invite you in to the room of my mind.
I have not let you in before, have pretended the constant drum of fear was just normal background noise. I have not let you in before because I knew you would point to all the dark, dusty shelves where I hide all the things I don’t want to put on display. I thought you’d point to that box overflowing and ready to burst where I cram stories of anger and rage and frustration and shame out of public view. I expected you’d make fun of the tiny knick knacks of joy on my mantel and press them behind the more impressive statues of foreboding and dread. And perhaps you would.
But hah! I will channel the trickster and invite you in. I’ll pull the rug out from under you and steal your thunder. I’ll dump out the boxes I’ve been afraid to unpack. I’ll spread the mementos of anger across the room to get a really good look at them. I’ll see all these souvenirs not of malice but of passion and indignation. I’ll toss the long-hidden scrapbook pages of guilt and shame into the air like confetti. I’ll celebrate the stories they tell and I’ll tell them again, aloud, growing more courageous and open-hearted by the minute. I’ll proudly dust off the knick-knacks of joy you thought silly, and place them front and center on my mantel, and toss the idols to foreboding into the box for the incinerator.
And I’ll laugh. And I think you will too. I’ll invite you for tea and perhaps even let you stay awhile to gaze at the mess I’ve unleashed. You may try, you may plead, you may make clever arguments, but I will not let you talk me into changing my mind and putting it all back neatly as it was. Fear, you’ve been punked 😉