Doing it afraid
I cannot stand still and I cannot run away
I will not get to where I want to be by standing still, by expecting the world to alter in its revolutions alone. This I have known for a while and have tried dutifully to heed. I will, inversely, not become the person I want to be by running away. This I have not wanted to believe but has shown me quite forcefully that I must—found me when I was transparent and otherworldly and pinned me to the ground in a singular arresting motion, forced me to look at it and see that it is true. I cannot keep running away.
The fear is okay—natural, even—and I have decided I must do it afraid. I cannot wait until I have mustered up the courage. There will always be more reasons to shy away. But I have to take the risk anyway, say no anyway, stand firm anyway. I must look the scary thing in the eye. I must confront it. And I must not look away.
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I can and I will
and this is how
by taking small steps—I go to physical therapy for the thing that has latched onto me for eight years, and the physical therapist puts a name to what I was sure was unnameable, incurable. He has me do calf raises and even on the good leg I am wobbly, constantly correcting, and I feel young and small. I am not strong like I used to be, do not have the endurance I so prided myself on when I was younger. Once a solution is no longer fantasy I decide I want it back now, it is possible at all so it must be possible now. But physical limitations are not forgiving, nor are they fixed in a matter of days. I must go slowly, and consistently. The waiting will ache the most.
by seeing goodness in softness—Everyone famous is all angles, some nearly skeletal. No one looks like their younger selves anymore. I see the danger in this, can analyze and intellectualize it, call it a symptom, a weapon, an omen, yet still I find myself searching ways to sculpt my jawline, sharpen my softened chin. There is a reason I cloak myself in all things flowy and shapeless. But then my mother sends a photo of her and the cat and I see my face in hers, the same tilt of her head when she smiles. All of me goes tender then. There is goodness in my softness, and I must not let it harden.
by pausing, and listening—The internet goes out on a Sunday when I am home alone. It is hot and all the curtains are already drawn. Immediately I find myself stranded, and for this I am embarrassed. I cannot laze around the way I wanted to. I resolve to be independent from it; it would be careless and a lie to say I had nothing to do. So I turn on the record player, tidy the house, do the dishes, then sit and read. Halfway through the second record I forget to flip it and read in silence instead. I find peace in the silence, in the faint whisperings of birds through the living room window, in the footsteps of neighbors and car starts, the noises of others who are willing to brave the heat. I could go for a walk, I consider briefly, then decide to stay in to rewatch a bluray and crochet. I make most of the sleeve of my sweater. The internet comes on partway through the movie but I don’t notice until the credits and the theme song.
by finding myself in the earth, and finding the earth in me—One night when I cannot settle I put a video in my headphones. A podcast, really, a softspoken man listing off science facts to lull you to sleep. I do not know much about moss to start but lying in bed with streetlights seeping in I find myself unexpectedly teary, and inspired. Moss is not like most other plants and it is very much alive. It is an ecosystem built for persistence. There is life in every bit of the world, small and underfoot, and it must change and adapt and rise and fall like the rest of us. It is a life cycle that balances home and horizon. He has two hours of moss facts to list off but I do not make it far. Still I wake with the knowledge that there is resilience to be found in every corner, and I do not feel small anymore. More importantly, I do not feel alone.
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I have to look at my weakness and regard it gently. The gentleness is the hardest part for me. If I am to dwell on my shortfalls I must not see my weakness as a lack of goodness. A mistake is not a failure, it is a characteristic of living.
Search and find, then, in these coming days, a small step to take, knowing each one will bring you closer. Goodness and wholeness in the parts of you that fester shame. Peace in silence, in unplugging. The life and renewal of springtime. The scary thing—and then do it afraid.
Where I have been gentler
Daily: lunch break walks to see the flowers, calling a no-makeup day a “natural beauty day” (my love coined this one and I want to keep it and hold it dearly), seeing my name in NASA landsat
Media: Remember? by Rachel Bobbitt, the magical moss facts video, I Can and I Will by Searows (again, again)
Words:
Gratitude will cure it by Sky Daye
A portal of emergence by Lisa Olivera
Quiet. My body melted heavily into the chair; I heard a cart go up the street. The room grew suddenly big with meaning. Something was about to happen, was happening: each object in the room seemed perfect of its kind, its kind being just its one self. The moment split into Eternity and I went with it: I had neither skin nor bones, but flowed into the world, sacred along with everything else, and was lost. - As Meat Loves Salt, Maria McCann
Here’s to open windows and midday matchas,
Helena
i love the message here. i’ve spent years struggling with doing things afraid and with failure. i would avoid things that i wasn’t sure i’d do well and it caused me to miss out on a bunch of opportunities. but like you said you can start small.