Life sometimes feels like a balancing act. As if I'm walking along a cliff edge, a tightrope wire, a log spanning a deep dark canyon. Too far one way, and I'll topple off; too far the other way, and the same thing will happen. I can't quite see the end of the line I'm walking, and the wind gusts around me.
But as long as I can keep my balance, I'm okay.
Fear is like vertigo. Whether the cause is physical, psychological, or just a list of statistics I read in the morning paper, fear whispers of the depths below and the many who have fallen.
Those aren't lies, just ugly facts. Many have fallen, and in many different ways. But that kind of vertigo can be pushed away. Don't look down, you'll be fine. Keep your eyes on the other side. Keep walking, not too slow and not too fast. Momentum will help you stay upright.
Sometimes, though, that's not enough. The deep-seated fears are like an inner ear problem. Even when I'm walking freely and easily, I still feel off balance. Like I might fall, even though the laws of physics and the tells of my own body are all declaring the opposite. That vertigo makes me second-guess things I shouldn't have to.
Just getting perspective is enough to begin to unlearn the habit of listening to that lopsided inner ear. And from what I've seen in my own life, that lopsidedness can even be undone, can be healed.
I want to be not only normal, but to pass normal into extraordinary. I want to have such a healthy sense of balance that I can not only rely on it to tell me if I'm walking strongly, but I want the reflexes to match. I won't just be walking, then. I'll be dancing, my feet marking time with the wind around me. The uncertainty before me bright mist rather than darkness: "The curtain of rain turned all to silver, and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and a far green country under a swift sunrise."