Dare you express your greatest fear?
Your core fear, the fear upon which the other little fears nurse like kittens to mother cat?
Fear that lurks at the core of you, slinking behind dark shadows, blowing smoke halos toward dim light?
Way down here, in the unconscious of your cavern, hides your greatest fear with its mirror tricks reflecting in the light far above. Watch for snakes! Boa constrictors live here, and don’t tell me they’re not frightening.
They’re not frightening only if you’ve conceptualized them or read stories like “Swiss Family Robinson” in which the marooned and shipwrecked father penetrates the skull of the constrictor with gunshot and the serpent dies forever.
But wait! The serpent is re-born as a bear, a cougar, your cigarette, your judgments, your anger, your inner shame, your guilt, your ego which won’t obey the conscription of your higher self.
My deepest fear~~I shall whisper it here. I am afraid of “nothing to do”. It’s a fear born in childhood, perhaps in past life nightmares of dying in a small locked box, unable to move.
A dozen times a day (on dark days sometimes a hundred) the niggling voice announces, “There is nothing to do” and something inside panics and propels and scurries toward something–anything–oh, god, anything–to prevent the inevitable suffering and suffocating.
So I create.
I garden, dance, connect, take pictures, offer words of wisdom, travel (oh, yes, travel!)
The fear is a propellant, a gift, a piece of composted soil out of which creation thrives.
But how much of my action is a response and how much a reaction? How much comes from a desire to do–to hide from the serpent–and how much comes from an honest movement?
Do not try to reassure. Please. We all have our demons. If you haven’t found yours, it’s still hidden and enjoy your day or perhaps lucky lifetime.
Once, years ago, I had a fatal argument with a friend.
“It’s all suffering,” she sighed.
I looked askance.
“It’s all joy!” I replied, feeling the joy underneath the suffering, the truth of the joy.
We actually parted ways soon after, a wedge in our relationship. I couldn’t really see the suffering and she couldn’t really perceive the joy.
Later–because life always turns its lazy movement of the seasons, over and over again–I met my inner serpent and now~~
It’s all joy, underneath it. Surrounding it, penetrating it. It is what is real. However the suffering, our core suffering, remains like a thorn in our tender palm, red and oozing, until something in us truly perceives that which is larger than the sliver, wider than the palm, more expansive than the body, more inclusive than everything you can see or hear or think in this very moment.
Sometimes I glimpse it, and sometimes the glimpse lasts for a while. You see it all very clearly, the divine play of it.
Other times I am lost in the core fear, the frightened inner child, that which somehow can’t escape the box of a thousand nightmares. It doesn’t realize that the box is cardboard and it can fall away in an instant.
It can fall away now, dear reader.