It’s Tuesday morning and I find myself again surrounded by crimson canyons scattered with dry brush, small reptiles, and the echoing sound of singing birds. I have wandered off the trail on Porcupine Rim and hiked down a long, skinny corridor, like a rocky peninsula in a sea of space, to a spot in the centre of the canyon surrounded by a 300 ft. drop-off on all sides. To get to the spot I want to reach, I therefore have to cross a moderate-sized gap which separates it from the rest of the formation.
As I stand on the edge of the first rock, my eyes are set intently on the second one, while my mind is preoccupied with the gap itself. The risk of falling is relatively small; I am pretty sure that I can clear it. What then prevents me from leaping across in full confidence?
Perhaps it is the split second where I will have lost my grounding completely, touching neither the first rock nor the second. As soon as my foot leaves the first rock, I will have committed myself whole-heartedly to crossing the gap. If I try to change my decision after that, hesitation will ensue; this will cause me to fall between the rocks. Therefore, as soon as I leave the first rock, the presence of doubt will have serious consequences. Sitting comfortably grounded here right now, I feel free to doubt as much as I’d like, the only consequences being perhaps frustration, disappointment, and a sense of stagnation in personal growth.
While I have always understood the risk of doubt in the first situation, I have only recently begun to realise the intimate relationship between the two. My body may be ostensibly safe doubting itself in a state of non-action, but what starts as a thought will lead to a corresponding action, effectively making doubt in either situation a detriment to my overall safety.
I focus on my breath, trying to be present, to touch my thoughts and let them go. I lay down next to a small bush on my rock and close my eyes, listening to the birds and the wind whistling through the canyon. As time passes, I can feel the heat of the sun intensifying. I am sweating profusely and my tongue feels dry and leathery. I sit up to take a drink out of my Camelbak, pause for a moment to regain my balance, and sit down on the edge of the rock once more.
I stay there for a while with the feeling that I have reached an impasse, nervously sipping at my water perhaps also to stall the time. I sit with the energy of the moment, with the thought of that small instant when I will find myself between two rocks, my feet resting in empty space rather than on solid ground. In this moment, the gap is not a gap and rock #2 is not a rock. The gap and the rock have transformed into tangible fear and I am about to spring right into it. The thought terrifies me. I seriously consider forgetting the whole thing and moving on. My tongue starts to feel dry again.
As I reach for another sip and my mind becomes preoccupied with that action, I feel my body shift suddenly without my permission and leap across the gap. When my feet land on the second rock, I am completely still for a moment. Then, I start to shake with excitement, a huge grin on my face. I climb back to the first rock and jump again…
and again…
and again…
Each time, I become more confident and making the leap becomes exponentially easier. By the fourth time, the gap becomes again a gap; the rock, a rock.
Fear is a specter that manifests in the physical world by inhabiting objects and people. We may believe that we are afraid of what we can see, hear, taste, touch, and smell with our senses, but this is merely an illusion – a mirage which disappears the more we approach it. When we get close enough, we realise that what attracts us to it is not anything that we can see or hold but rather the vibrant energy which (at the moment) underlies it.
Our whole being is called to it, even if our conscious mind is unaware of what is happening. Our primordial attraction compels us to begin our journey towards it, whether or not we are consciously aware of it. At this point, our mind is already creating a storyline to justify the “urge” and to determine whether to continue down the path or abandon it. In both cases, the storyline does not reflect the actual reason for being there and should be regarded as an ego distraction. The true “reason” for going cannot be articulated because it exists outside of the framework of reason itself, which is only the domain of the mind, not our being in its entirety.
My writing is interrupted by a cawing raven flying above the valley. I look quickly to my right and see its shadow pass beside me on the rock. As I glance towards the sky, I watch it catching thermals, which take it higher and higher above the Earth. What a majestic and solitary creature! It dives dramatically and disappears behind a nub in the canyon. A fly appears just as suddenly on my backpack, disappears, and then reappears on my journal. I grab the book and hold it closer so that we can both have a better look at each other. We are still for a moment. Then he disappears again.
Why are we called to approach this energy? What moves us to step up to it rather than attempt to evade it? Perhaps we begin to follow our calling to approach fear when we arrive at the realization that fear is unavoidable, that it is imbued in the fundamental fabric of our lives. How we deal with its presence determines the way we respond to our environment at every moment. Someone who understands this relationship can look deeply into another person’s behaviour and understand the underlying intent of everything they say and do.
When we realise that encountering fear is inevitable, we begin to want to have a closer look at it, to know it well. If we are able to do this humbly and without aggression, then we can hold it within us and even become friends with it, rather than see it as something to conquer or avoid. This allows us to be at peace with ourselves at all times, regardless of the situation we are in.
The key is not to get caught up in form, but rather to focus on the energy. Each person will find it in different things and should bear in mind that it constantly enters and exits the places it inhabits. When it leaves one entity, one should not make the mistake of believing that she’s “won.” There is no winning, losing, or conquering – only coming to seek, momentarily finding, and then leaving again to continue the search.
I tend to be drawn to forms of fear whose roots are clear and simple, as in a jump, so that I can work with it. Ultimately, I use what I’ve learned to enter murkier waters in other areas of my life, where the fear may manifest less acutely but the effects of which encompass a much greater realm of consequence—such as in the cases of anxiety, restlessness, frustration, jealousy, anger, and boredom. In other words, I can more effectively transform the habit responses which prevent me from being happy, capable, and free.
Though the choice of walking away from a leap on a hike exists, I know that I cannot avoid the aspect of the leap that made it difficult in the first place -- the reality of uncertainty and impermanence. This is why I use every opportunity to practice. The constant training makes me calmer, stronger, and more confident in dealing with the unavoidable challenges and aversions that arise every day.
The point of the practice is not to eradicate fear but to hold it without being afraid by it. Then, instead of causing us to close up and shut down, fear can be our greatest teacher, helping us to cross the most daunting gaps in our lives. It can allow us to take something which formerly caused us much anxiety and suffering and turn it into something beautiful.
As I stand on the edge of the first rock, my eyes are set intently on the second one, while my mind is preoccupied with the gap itself. The risk of falling is relatively small; I am pretty sure that I can clear it. What then prevents me from leaping across in full confidence?
Perhaps it is the split second where I will have lost my grounding completely, touching neither the first rock nor the second. As soon as my foot leaves the first rock, I will have committed myself whole-heartedly to crossing the gap. If I try to change my decision after that, hesitation will ensue; this will cause me to fall between the rocks. Therefore, as soon as I leave the first rock, the presence of doubt will have serious consequences. Sitting comfortably grounded here right now, I feel free to doubt as much as I’d like, the only consequences being perhaps frustration, disappointment, and a sense of stagnation in personal growth.
While I have always understood the risk of doubt in the first situation, I have only recently begun to realise the intimate relationship between the two. My body may be ostensibly safe doubting itself in a state of non-action, but what starts as a thought will lead to a corresponding action, effectively making doubt in either situation a detriment to my overall safety.
I focus on my breath, trying to be present, to touch my thoughts and let them go. I lay down next to a small bush on my rock and close my eyes, listening to the birds and the wind whistling through the canyon. As time passes, I can feel the heat of the sun intensifying. I am sweating profusely and my tongue feels dry and leathery. I sit up to take a drink out of my Camelbak, pause for a moment to regain my balance, and sit down on the edge of the rock once more.
I stay there for a while with the feeling that I have reached an impasse, nervously sipping at my water perhaps also to stall the time. I sit with the energy of the moment, with the thought of that small instant when I will find myself between two rocks, my feet resting in empty space rather than on solid ground. In this moment, the gap is not a gap and rock #2 is not a rock. The gap and the rock have transformed into tangible fear and I am about to spring right into it. The thought terrifies me. I seriously consider forgetting the whole thing and moving on. My tongue starts to feel dry again.
As I reach for another sip and my mind becomes preoccupied with that action, I feel my body shift suddenly without my permission and leap across the gap. When my feet land on the second rock, I am completely still for a moment. Then, I start to shake with excitement, a huge grin on my face. I climb back to the first rock and jump again…
and again…
and again…
Each time, I become more confident and making the leap becomes exponentially easier. By the fourth time, the gap becomes again a gap; the rock, a rock.
Fear is a specter that manifests in the physical world by inhabiting objects and people. We may believe that we are afraid of what we can see, hear, taste, touch, and smell with our senses, but this is merely an illusion – a mirage which disappears the more we approach it. When we get close enough, we realise that what attracts us to it is not anything that we can see or hold but rather the vibrant energy which (at the moment) underlies it.
Our whole being is called to it, even if our conscious mind is unaware of what is happening. Our primordial attraction compels us to begin our journey towards it, whether or not we are consciously aware of it. At this point, our mind is already creating a storyline to justify the “urge” and to determine whether to continue down the path or abandon it. In both cases, the storyline does not reflect the actual reason for being there and should be regarded as an ego distraction. The true “reason” for going cannot be articulated because it exists outside of the framework of reason itself, which is only the domain of the mind, not our being in its entirety.
My writing is interrupted by a cawing raven flying above the valley. I look quickly to my right and see its shadow pass beside me on the rock. As I glance towards the sky, I watch it catching thermals, which take it higher and higher above the Earth. What a majestic and solitary creature! It dives dramatically and disappears behind a nub in the canyon. A fly appears just as suddenly on my backpack, disappears, and then reappears on my journal. I grab the book and hold it closer so that we can both have a better look at each other. We are still for a moment. Then he disappears again.
Why are we called to approach this energy? What moves us to step up to it rather than attempt to evade it? Perhaps we begin to follow our calling to approach fear when we arrive at the realization that fear is unavoidable, that it is imbued in the fundamental fabric of our lives. How we deal with its presence determines the way we respond to our environment at every moment. Someone who understands this relationship can look deeply into another person’s behaviour and understand the underlying intent of everything they say and do.
When we realise that encountering fear is inevitable, we begin to want to have a closer look at it, to know it well. If we are able to do this humbly and without aggression, then we can hold it within us and even become friends with it, rather than see it as something to conquer or avoid. This allows us to be at peace with ourselves at all times, regardless of the situation we are in.
The key is not to get caught up in form, but rather to focus on the energy. Each person will find it in different things and should bear in mind that it constantly enters and exits the places it inhabits. When it leaves one entity, one should not make the mistake of believing that she’s “won.” There is no winning, losing, or conquering – only coming to seek, momentarily finding, and then leaving again to continue the search.
I tend to be drawn to forms of fear whose roots are clear and simple, as in a jump, so that I can work with it. Ultimately, I use what I’ve learned to enter murkier waters in other areas of my life, where the fear may manifest less acutely but the effects of which encompass a much greater realm of consequence—such as in the cases of anxiety, restlessness, frustration, jealousy, anger, and boredom. In other words, I can more effectively transform the habit responses which prevent me from being happy, capable, and free.
Though the choice of walking away from a leap on a hike exists, I know that I cannot avoid the aspect of the leap that made it difficult in the first place -- the reality of uncertainty and impermanence. This is why I use every opportunity to practice. The constant training makes me calmer, stronger, and more confident in dealing with the unavoidable challenges and aversions that arise every day.
The point of the practice is not to eradicate fear but to hold it without being afraid by it. Then, instead of causing us to close up and shut down, fear can be our greatest teacher, helping us to cross the most daunting gaps in our lives. It can allow us to take something which formerly caused us much anxiety and suffering and turn it into something beautiful.
