Mapping the Gap

I have a friend called Fear.  She visits me at night.  She has visited more often these past months, and now, as we have a house on the market, international borders to cross, and three spirited warrior-children hanging from the mast as we set sail, she’s dropping by quite a bit.  And, also, I’m a mom/mum, and Fear has a special affinity for us. 

Fear prefers the cover of darkness to make her visits.  She creeps in quietly.  Deep in sleep, I am caught unawares.  She sits on the edge of the bed, chilly trickles run across my chest, and suddenly, I am awake to icy thoughts.  Tragedy.  Accident. Illness.  Disaster.  Violence. Fluorescent lights on stained hospital sheets.  Children shaking in fear.  Voices of urgent instruction in a language I cannot understand.  Fevers and vomiting. Blood on the concrete.  A fatal moment of distraction.  A lifetime of undying regret.  She’s good, my friend Fear.  Very effective in the presentation. 

In the lightless night, I’m vulnerable to her schemes.  Easy prey.  Unarmed and disoriented from sleep, I struggle to grasp my usual anchoring ideas and launch any dignified defence.  As I cast about in search of my usual solid mindset, Fear unloads her wears and delivers her most persuasive sales pitches.  She’s convincing.  Very skilled at her craft.  Bleary-eyed, I’m a pushover, easily duped.  One moment, I put up a good fight, blindly launching counterarguments and self-comforts into the darkness, and the next, I’m on my back, accepting the truth in her tales.  I am deeply shaken, yet I know this is not my native self.

I have started to receive Fear’s callings a bit differently though.  At least, I’m trying to.  These days, once I am awake enough to realise it is Fear who has paid me a visit, I don’t batten down the hatches and pull out the guns.  I don’t run for the covers and hide.  You see, I realised something: Fear is my friend.  She’s not my favourite friend, but she is a friend.  A fierce friend.  The kind you should keep around.  While I rarely invite her over, her intentions for me are pure.  She doesn’t show up to torment me or deconstruct my grand plans.  She doesn’t plot for my demise or take any pleasure in my suffering.  She shows up as protector, to warn me, to defend my family, and to safeguard all that I value.  She shows up to raise concerns, to point out the weak points, and to heighten my attention to what needs consideration.  Fear knows me intimately, and she offers me counsel for my own preservation.  Yes, Fear is a friend, so I have decided to receive her as such.  At least, I try to.

I recently realised something else too.  Fear doesn’t show up under the cover of night because of any vindictive plot.  She’s not a creature of darkness.  She comes at night because she doesn’t stand a chance in the light of day.  Clarity, confidence, and conviction own the day.  Fear has to hide away when they are on duty.  She knows they will strike her down.  When the lights of consciousness are on, Fear doesn’t get a voice.  I don’t give her air.  So, it is at night that she is forced to claim her moment, to slip into my altered state of sleep.

When Fear shows up these days, I try to understand her knock as an offering of aid. I open the door.  I invite her in, offer her a cup of tea, and pull out a seat at the table.  While I don’t exactly appreciate the hours she keeps, I understand she deserves an audience.  She has as much of a right to be heard as all the excitement, curiosity, desire, and the rest of human experience.  She’s come on a mission, and she deserves to be heard. 

When she shows up now, I let her air her grievances. “Tell me,” I say to the darkness, cringing at what onslaught will befall me.  “What do I need to know?”  She often says something along the theme of: “I am concerned that something horrible is going to happen. [Insert tragedy.]  One of your people will be lost, and you’ll be doomed to a life of regret.  You will wail, ‘We never should have gone.  We should have stayed home.  We had a good life.  How stupid to leave it!’  The guilt will be consuming.  It’ll be awful.  You’ll hate yourself.  It could happen.  It really could.”  I listen.  I let her detail the horror.  I allow her to unload.  I consider her concerns with respect.  I remember that she’s here to help.  At least, I try to.

Once she’s done, I thank her for her fine work, for doing the dirty labour of worry.  I thank her for the forethought, for alerting me to potential threats, and for putting my attention on guard.  Sometimes our chats bear the fruit of practical precautions and sensible Plan Bs.  Sometimes we visit the same upsetting scene again and again, seemingly without purpose.  She just needs to talk, Fear.  She feels ignored, and this scares her even more.  Her work is important to her.  She calms down when she’s delivered her message. 

After she’s done, I let her know that while I appreciate her insights, she simply cannot be the one to call the shots in life.  Her concerns cannot lead the show.  Her protective ways, while very calculated, cannot map the path forward.  The true leader of this life is Boldness, and I recognise this means a lot of work for poor ol’ Fear. Despite all her noble intentions, all her vicious survival instincts, all her many hours put in, Fear simply isn’t leadership material.  I want her on the team.  I am grateful for her contributions.  I take her points into account, but a good life is not led by Fear.  Fear, once heard, needs to be dismissed.  With a thank you.

I know I’m not alone on these travel-inspired rendezvous with Fear.  A friend who is planning a big trip with her family said one of her jolting visits from Fear came as the image of an avalanche consuming her family when her partner suggested skiing as part of their trip. The full weight came crashing down, and her brave plans were pulled in.  Then, when the sparkly dust of tragedy had settled, she regained her composure and planned on.  

Fear is built into us.  It’s evolutionary.  People who listen to Fear survive. The trick is to receive her with familiarity and even welcome.  Things go a lot more pleasantly in the brain when we don’t bust out our fight-or-flight moves when Fear asks us to dance.  Fear will show up.  She will knock on the door, and she will knock ever more loudly the braver we get.  But Bravery isn’t brave unless Fear is in attendance.  Fear will come knocking.  We might as well open the door.  When we do, Fear does fine work.  When her audience is attentive, she bears gifts, but she gets pretty intense when evaded. At least in my experience.

So, as we head off to Lombok tomorrow, I’m having chats with Fear as she sees fit.  Months ago, as we planned our itinerary, my partner read aloud the safety warnings for Indonesia on the Australian government’s Smart Traveller website:  active volcanos, terrorist attacks, kidnappings targeting Australians, petty theft, poisoned beverages, and protests prone to violence.  Fear was totally taking notes.  In particular, she latched onto the phrase “exercise a high degree of caution.”  Vindication.  Fear was mounted up and ready to roll.  We’ve had a couple sessions since.  Last night, for example.  2am.  She actually wanted to talk “visas on arrival,” baggage allowances, layover times, airport transportation, and currency exchange.  She’s a busy gal.  So, as we approach our departure from this land of comforts and knowns, Fear is on the job.  And I am holding vigil.

“So slide over here and give me a moment
Your moves are so raw, I’ve got to let you know
I’ve got to let you know
You’re one of my kind

I need you tonight
‘Cause I’m not sleepin’
There’s somethin’ about you, girl
That makes me sweat

How do you feel?  I’m lonely
What do you think?  Can’t think at all
What you gonna do?  Gonna live my life”

I Need You Tonight, INXS