Category Archives: fear

Be Still

first published in “Through the Red Door,” the blog for Recovery Ministries of the Episcopal Church.

Headed out the door, late as usual, I paused with my hand on the key. The neighbor’s cat was immobile on the front porch, deathly still, ready to strike. My eyes sought out his prey. After a moment, I saw it: a lizard or green anole, just three inches long. It was a dusty, unremarkable brown, still as a stone, about three feet off the ground. It was out of reach of the cat, but was it aware that it was safe? Looking closer, I saw its throat was pulsing rapidly, and it looked like fear to me.

When I am fearful, anxious, out of control, I forget to breathe and lose my focus, paralyzed by the threat I am so certain is about to pounce. Then I am best served by stillness, because that’s how I sometimes discover how to act, think and become what my Higher Power has in mind for me.

How ironic, that the apparent source of its salvation at that moment caused even more distress.

My first impulse was to rescue the lizard from the fanged, clawed predator, but some instinct or maybe just curiosity stilled my movement. I stopped and witnessed the stand-off, a miniature high img_8214noon, completely inconsequential except to the three-inch anole. For the lizard, it was literally a life-or-death situation, and I wonder now: did those few seconds feel like an eternity to the cold-blooded creature?

Then, because of impatience or a short attention span or a desire to look like a responsible adult who owns a clock, I twisted the door knob. The cat, quite accustomed to my comings and goings, barely flickered an ear. The chameleon’s throat seemed to pulse even faster. How ironic, that the apparent source of its salvation at that moment caused even more distress.

I told the cat, quite nicely, to leave the poor beastie alone for the time being, and Rocket complied with feline aplomb. That is, he ignored me for a leisurely beat or two before strolling a few feet away and burying his nose between his long, upthrust legs.

I stood on the threshold and watched the lizard. The fresh air reminded me to breathe, and the deep stillness of the creature gave me a little jolt of joy. As I watched, and breathed, and remembered to be grateful, an electric, vibrant green crept from one end to the other of the chameleon, a transformation so soothing, so astonishing, so poignant I gasped – and just like that, the lizard disappeared.

When I came home hours later, no sign of the lizard. But Rocket, my neighbor’s cat, was sprawled across my front step, and deigned to allow me the pleasure of sinking my fingers in his silky, warm belly fur. He purred, and it was as if we had never held the balance of a tiny life in our control. Perhaps we never did.

It’s Simple, But Don’t Let Anybody Tell You It’s Easy.

 

Have you ever heard the piebird sing?

“Until and unless there is a person, situation, event, idea, conflict, or relationship that you cannot ‘manage,’ you will never find the True Manager. So God makes sure that several things will come your way that you cannot manage on your own.”

–Richard Rohr, Breathing Under Water

The bestseller Breathing Under Water was republished in 2011. A companion journal will be published in late July, with reflections, discussion questions, and room for notes as readers explore the idea that we are all addicted to something
The bestseller Breathing Under Water was republished in 2011. A companion journal will be published in late July, with reflections, discussion questions, and room for notes as readers explore the idea that we are all addicted to something

These simple words are likely to strike a chord of recognition in almost every human being. Rohr, known world-wide for his focus on transformational and mystical traditions, has written more than twenty books about spirituality, recovery and relationships, and his writing style is straightforward and concrete.

Continue reading It’s Simple, But Don’t Let Anybody Tell You It’s Easy.

Sugar stealing biker midgets and other hazards.

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(From Pizza Pie Chronicles, Pavo Magazine, 2010)

Okay, I’m a middle aged white woman. I look like somebody’s mother because I AM somebody’s mother. I don’t look the least bit mean or intimidating. Friends and even complete strangers (delivery customers) worry about my safety. Justifiably so, it seems. When we were trained, the manager assured us casually we’d be robbed sooner or later.

But I am a sensible person. It’s hard to rob a person in a moving vehicle. I trust my instincts and believe me, if I think it’s not safe to get out of my car, I won’t. Some nights have spooky moments. My phone loses reception in all the worst places. One street started off okay, nice little ranch-style houses, a streetlight or two. But before the numbers counted down to my appointed destination, the road petered out into gravel. The last streetlight was busted. My headlights illuminated further down the road, where the gravel ended and the red clay rutted track led uphill and out of sight.

Next to me was an old one-story house, with boarded up windows, sitting crooked on the lot like it’d been dropped there by an absent-minded giant. Oh, the rest of that road looked so dark. You know in scary movies where the audience shouts “Don’t go down to the basement! DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!” — I had those kind of vibes. And unlike the pretty young heroine in the movies, I paid attention to those vibes and whipped my little car around and headed back to the store.

The map for delivery drivers posted on the wall of the store has great swathes marked off in bold black: “NDAD”. It didn’t take long to figure out that meant “no delivery after dark.” I drink lots of caffeine and stay alert.

Of course some (or most) of the fear for my safety is based on the race thing, whether people are willing to admit it or not. So it’s ironic that my first brush with trouble would happen in the nice mostly white suburb on the fringes of our delivery area. I was delivering to a business, with the word “shop” in its name. I got there and across the street I saw what was clearly a biker bar. This shop, then, must be where those leather-clad hooligans got their bikes tuned up and decked out.

The owner of the shop saw me headed in with a load of pizzas and wings, and graciously held the door open for me. With a bad feeling in my gut, I saw the repair shop had a pool table. And a bar. And it smelled like liquor, and it was cloudy with cigarette smoke. I set the food down on the bar and turned around to get paid. A man in black leather came towards me waving a fifty. He was a little the worse for drink. I later heard this place has a rep for pretty good home brew. He actually looked like he was about to fall down.

He handed me money and I said politely (as I’d been trained) drivers weren’t allowed to take fifty dollar bills. He waved the money again and said I’d better take it, the extra $10 was my tip. So I took it and turned to leave, holding the now empty thermal bag. Really bad vibes practically turned the air purple. “Hey,” the drunk biker said. “I want that bag to keep my beer in.” His buddies stopped playing pool to watch a more entertaining game.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t sell it to you.” I know I sounded prim. I wanted to sound like a Sunday school teacher. I was clawing behind my back for the door knob. He interrupted me. “Sell me your hat. I want your hat.” His buddies laughed. This was fun.

“You can buy one at the store, sir,” firmly, a “don’t bully your classmates” tone. I turned and put my hand on the door handle.

“But I want some sugar. What if I stole it?” From behind, he reached up and put his forearm across my throat. A classic choke hold. But notice I said, “reached up.” He was short. I mean, really short, like five or six inches shorter than I am. It was kind of like a five-year-old in black leather and whiskers taking on a tenth-grader.

In the weeks that followed, I have thought of so many ways I WISH I’d responded. People have (of course) told me how I should have reacted. If I’d only bent my leg at the knee and raised my foot up sharply, there would’ve been a connection. I could have screamed and then extorted money from all the biker dudes. I probably could’ve copied some lame karate move from a spy movie and thrown him. That would have been real entertaining.

But I did none of these. I twisted loose and jumped in my car and drove away as fast as I could. I stayed mad a couple days, until I told the story to some friends. One of them positively howled. “Sugar stealing midget bikers!” I told him I was stealing that. And I can’t wait to go back. I know what to do now.