When I let loose of the balloons of worry that I’ve wrapped tightly around my hand, I feel a quick rush of relief. In the here and now, this moment within body and soul, there is nothing amiss. There is nothing “wrong“ with anything.
I’ve been using the coping route of distraction, which is excellent, but indulging it too far without acknowledging the underlying whisper of distress allows that murmuring brook to become a raging torrent. Much as I want to have fun, and fully believe all is as it should be and “there’s nothing to worry about,“ that strategy only takes me so far.
So, I settle with self and morning coffee, and ask: What’s worrying you, dear heart? Tell me your troubles and I’ll give you a hug fit for an angel.
Fear is always at the bottom of my distress, however it comes spinning out of me—irritation, impatience, a longing for things to be different that is so strong it’s nearly unbearable.
And what is the fear beneath any fear? Most likely it’s the thing we don’t want to think about, the thing we push off and secretly, illogically, believe will never happen…namely, fear of death.
Philosophy, belief, even what feels like certainty that all will be well no matter what, all fly out the window when the reality that someone—your father or mother, your beloved dog, your dear self—might not…be any more. The shell of the body that held the illumination of soul still exists, at least before the undertakers and cremators go into action. For that space of time following the last breath, there’s a sense of complete unreality.
This being still exists, here they are, right in front of me. How could they be gone?
Hard as it is to deal with the mortality of others, how much more so is it to deal with my own?
I brush off any real effort to work through those fears. Over the last several years, I’ve migrated to the Ascension camp that holds we don’t necessarily die anytime soon. We keep our bodies, which can be restored to full health and youthfulness. The kind of miracle reserved for saints, not mere humans, becomes available to us.
As I’ve found with most spiritual belief systems, there’s a few caveats. Well, the outcome depends on your soul contract. And whether you’ve properly dealt with all your third-density karma. And if you’ve reached a certain vibration. And if… The footnotes annotating a future of unmitigated joy seem endless.
Many psychological and spiritual self-help suggestions seem to rest on the foundation of dragging perceived ugliness and discomfort into the light for processing. Only then, most philosophies tell us, can they be overcome. Some methods hold that nothing needs to be overcome, that acknowledging and examining our dark corners yields the desired result of letting go of them, which in turn releases their hold upon us.
My willingness to ponder, let alone do, such work is in woefully short supply. I’m asking my inner self, my higher self, to work it out without me right now. If we truly can manifest that which we desire, that shouldn’t be too tall an order for the chef who is creating the feast of my life.