My fears are nebulous, hard to picture, like seawrack under murky waters. I don't go looking at them often. I wade out to where the water's hip deep, and watch them under the current, feel them swirl in my gut.
Usually, that's when I back off, but they make good eating, once they're cleaned off and cooked just right, and, well, I need all the energy I can get.
So today, I'm going diving, harvesting my fears, tearing pieces off some, pulling others out by their roots. I'll bring them out of the murk, to where I can see them, clean them, trim them. I'll cook them with some tasty seasonings: a little pepper and lemon; perhaps some dill or tarragon. No salt. They already have minerals enough (from my tears, my sweat, my blood).
But first, I have to gather the courage to dive.
My hopes are nebulous, hard to picture, like whisps of cloud on a sunny day: shifting, dissolving, reforming from second to second. They're too high for me to reach, the sun too bright for me to gaze at them for long, but I can feel them, up there, feel my energy body reaching towards them.
It's a nice place to be, that reaching place; far more comfortable than this aching flesh, lighter and brighter than any day to day could ever maintain.
But hope has always served me ill. It takes me away from reality, beyond what is actually possible. Hope leaps ahead of where I am to where I wish I could be, but am not -- and in the process trips me up for countless painful falls. I land, dissatisfied, depleted, dejected in failure: faced with all that I was not able to accomplish, not able to complete, not able even to begin -- all that I am not, cannot, and will not be.
So today, I'm bringing myself, all of myself, back into this body, where pain is, and where pleasure is; this place of agony and delight, where life actually happens, where I embrace what is.
But first I have to gather the courage to be here.
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