* * *
She started to miss things in fragments, which were as they came to her when she was idle in the classroom, in her kitchen, in the shower. She thought about how it would feel to grasp the curtains in her room, how the rough fabric would be so beautifully colored but not at all soft, how it would feel in her fingers as she brushed it away from the window, securing it behind the black metal lip she’d screwed into the wall. Would it be daylight? Would it be nighttime? Would she be freshly washed? Would her room still be her own?
She imagined laying in the backseat of a car. Any car, being driven always by her mother. She could see the flashing of streetlights as they sped by, and she could see the branches, barren from the winter cold. Would it be Christmas? Would she be full in every way a person could be full? Would she fall asleep without even trying?
Before you learn to live without fear, you must be very, very afraid. And the deepest fear is believing that what you thought would be a temporary missing might be the kind of missing that lasts forever. And not knowing if it’s to be real. Never knowing if it is actually reality, or if it’s only the nightmare you brush against at night. That’s the kind of fear that grips my heart. That’s the kind of fear that needs no answer when asked, “What are you?” Would that I could live without that question, and moreover without that answer.
How am I to separate myself from this fear without abandoning the feelings that brought it about? How can I love something without being afraid of losing it? Maybe it’s knowing that the kind of love that possesses and traps for fear of loss is a selfish love. Love, and be okay with loss through appreciation and gratitude. And never again feel the fear of losing what you have not yet properly appreciated, what you have not yet properly understood. Instead, know that you will understand nothing, but love it anyway. Be grateful even when it hurts you. Love without fear. Live without fear.
You must do more than simply try to let go. You must try AND let go. Commit actions with love and hope and watch them lovingly as they blunder about, possibly destroying themselves, possibly flying. Don’t be angry. Don’t be bitter. Those are useless, sinking emotions. Work hard, and expect nothing. Work hard for the sake of it. Don’t expect a thank you. Do something because you love to do it, not because it’ll make others love you. Love yourself. Respect yourself. And abandon yourself. Live beyond yourself. Be completely in being. Be always present and apart. And know that this is not insanity but rather the only way to be sane.
Forget everything you wrote and read, then discover it again. Be filled with wonder. Love. Destroy. Create. Feel. Hope. Work. Try. Do. Live. Be.
Then die. Die without fanfare, without expectations, completely free from fear.
* * *
I think I’m always done speaking in riddles and self-help terminology, but I never am. I hate myself for it, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m afraid of sounding like a pretentious preacher. That I’ll say these words and people will look at me through squinting eyes, hissing, “What do you know, you who are more damaged than I? You, who are a mess of horrid regularities, unworthy in every way?” And they’ll slither away, laughing, confident and poised and full of self-understanding.
Here, in this narrative, I can hear the words of Brendan. Of Dorothy. I can hear them saying that He loves me. He understands me. He takes away the fear of speaking, of trying to understand myself through lofty words. He’ll let me flail about as I desperately try and grasp peace of mind, and He is smiling, knowing that the only way I’ll get it is not by floundering, but by floating along in His contentment. He knows I’ll get there. He knows I need to learn to sink before I can know what it is to float. To fly. To sit with myself without being at war.
I’m not there yet.
But I will be.
She started to miss things in fragments, which were as they came to her when she was idle in the classroom, in her kitchen, in the shower. She thought about how it would feel to grasp the curtains in her room, how the rough fabric would be so beautifully colored but not at all soft, how it would feel in her fingers as she brushed it away from the window, securing it behind the black metal lip she’d screwed into the wall. Would it be daylight? Would it be nighttime? Would she be freshly washed? Would her room still be her own?
She imagined laying in the backseat of a car. Any car, being driven always by her mother. She could see the flashing of streetlights as they sped by, and she could see the branches, barren from the winter cold. Would it be Christmas? Would she be full in every way a person could be full? Would she fall asleep without even trying?
Before you learn to live without fear, you must be very, very afraid. And the deepest fear is believing that what you thought would be a temporary missing might be the kind of missing that lasts forever. And not knowing if it’s to be real. Never knowing if it is actually reality, or if it’s only the nightmare you brush against at night. That’s the kind of fear that grips my heart. That’s the kind of fear that needs no answer when asked, “What are you?” Would that I could live without that question, and moreover without that answer.
How am I to separate myself from this fear without abandoning the feelings that brought it about? How can I love something without being afraid of losing it? Maybe it’s knowing that the kind of love that possesses and traps for fear of loss is a selfish love. Love, and be okay with loss through appreciation and gratitude. And never again feel the fear of losing what you have not yet properly appreciated, what you have not yet properly understood. Instead, know that you will understand nothing, but love it anyway. Be grateful even when it hurts you. Love without fear. Live without fear.
You must do more than simply try to let go. You must try AND let go. Commit actions with love and hope and watch them lovingly as they blunder about, possibly destroying themselves, possibly flying. Don’t be angry. Don’t be bitter. Those are useless, sinking emotions. Work hard, and expect nothing. Work hard for the sake of it. Don’t expect a thank you. Do something because you love to do it, not because it’ll make others love you. Love yourself. Respect yourself. And abandon yourself. Live beyond yourself. Be completely in being. Be always present and apart. And know that this is not insanity but rather the only way to be sane.
Forget everything you wrote and read, then discover it again. Be filled with wonder. Love. Destroy. Create. Feel. Hope. Work. Try. Do. Live. Be.
Then die. Die without fanfare, without expectations, completely free from fear.
* * *
I think I’m always done speaking in riddles and self-help terminology, but I never am. I hate myself for it, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m afraid of sounding like a pretentious preacher. That I’ll say these words and people will look at me through squinting eyes, hissing, “What do you know, you who are more damaged than I? You, who are a mess of horrid regularities, unworthy in every way?” And they’ll slither away, laughing, confident and poised and full of self-understanding.
Here, in this narrative, I can hear the words of Brendan. Of Dorothy. I can hear them saying that He loves me. He understands me. He takes away the fear of speaking, of trying to understand myself through lofty words. He’ll let me flail about as I desperately try and grasp peace of mind, and He is smiling, knowing that the only way I’ll get it is not by floundering, but by floating along in His contentment. He knows I’ll get there. He knows I need to learn to sink before I can know what it is to float. To fly. To sit with myself without being at war.
I’m not there yet.
But I will be.
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