I am continuing with Proust’s Questionnaire. This one is easy for me. The answer is in the question.
Being fearful is my greatest fear.
So many awful things grow from fear. Prejudice, selective ignorance, clutching, smothering, giving up, and giving in. All of it rooted in a dread of the unknown, loss, or change.
More than anything else I fear that one day the what-ifs will win.
What-ifs are the language of fear. Something out of our control that we project out to the darkest corner until we can not, or choose not, to move. Fear is powerful that way.
From the second I gave my heart away, through bringing little people into the world, and noticing my wonderfully resilient mom’s hair turn white, I have fought fear. The more I love, the more relentless it is in finding that one thing I hadn’t thought of or poking that piece of me so tender that it steals my breath.
What if (fill in the blank)?
A few years ago, I realized everything fear whispered in my ear was out of my control. That didn’t stop it from toying with my ego. Convincing me that if I worried enough to take that extra step, think through or surround my loved ones with the right essential oils, the world would bend to my will. If I were good and locked up, things would work out.
Since unclenching my fists and acknowledging there are things I can not control, fear has grown quiet. It’s not gone, but I can breathe. I’m less annoying.
So, there it is. My greatest fear is that one day I will read something, clutch my chest, or lose more than I think I can bear. That I will panic and lock myself into a cage of nothing but fear and the what-ifs.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Bathroom Light Off.
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