...I never again made a decision governed by fear?
I just returned from a lovely reunion of old college friends in Seattle. Among them was Kitty, my roommate of two years, who has been living with stage four kidney cancer for a year and a half now. Saturday night, as we were all seated around a cozy dining room table drinking tea and eating pie after a feast of grilled chicken and veggies, somebody asked Kitty how cancer had changed her outlook on life. She said this: "Cancer has made me realize how many of my decisions are rooted in fear. I've vowed to try not to let fear hold me back anymore."
Whoa. On the one hand, this is not all that different from what we hear on movies like The Bucket List and Last Holiday: folks with a terminal illness decide to live out their last days fearlessly by going skydiving, taking lavish vacations, and even reconnecting with estranged family members. But somehow it sounded different to me coming from a twenty-six year old and a good friend. I knew she wasn't referring to a reckless "I'm going to die anyway" attitude, but rather she had just begun to perceive with extra clarity how fear can really chip away at your everyday quality of life. Kitty's comment hit me like a brick in the face, because though I don't have cancer, the battle against fear is one I've been fighting for as long as I can remember.
Suddenly I started to imagine what my life would look like if fear had no place in it. What would be different? It wasn't too hard to spit out a relatively long list.
Money would never matter. It has taken getting older to realize that money is a big deal whether you have it or you don't. It preoccupies the minds of the rich and the poor alike, and at certain times and in certain ways I have been both. If fear about money were absent from my life, I would never work a full time job again. I might work full time, but not at the same job. I would dabble in each of the things that I love - dance, writing, the environment, social work - and avoid the things I do solely for my daily bread (and to pay off the college loans). I would live minimally, with others, but I would travel often and eat well. I would live where the land and the culture make me feel at home, and not just where the jobs are. I would still go to the library for my books and movies, but I would own every song I ever listened to and liked. I wouldn't put things off till that mythical moment when, at long last, I reach the edge of the ocean of debt and step out onto the shores of economic freedom - I'd just do them.
Loneliness would never matter. I pride myself on not being one of those girls who thinks of nothing but boys and relationships. But I suffer from my own breed of codependence. I don't feel adequate to pursue ambitious exploits on my own. If the fear of loneliness were not a factor in my life, I would be happy to hike the Pacific Crest Trail by myself. I would not feel the need to pre-cast an entire organization before starting one. I would go to the church I like rather than the one my friends go to, or even the one my friends are starting. I would not wait to be invited to be roommates with people I love; I'd get my own place and invite them to follow me. If I were not afraid of stepping out on my own, my Christian hippie commune idea would have become a reality five years ago. And when I am honest with myself, if loneliness didn't matter, I wouldn't care that most of my friends are married and that I'm a perpetual third wheel. I wouldn't secretly wonder whether every decision was taking me closer to or further from my future mate.
Failure would never matter. Perfectionism runs deep in my veins. I want to be good - I want to be the best. I am obsessed with doing right, making the right choices. The phrase "'A' for effort" basically incites a gag reflex. But as we all know, perfectionism has its drawbacks. If I were not afraid to fail, it would never have taken me a year and a half to return to dance classes after moving to Chicago. I would not be afraid of sports, or video games, or anything competitive, ever. I would write a book. I would start a dance company. I would learn an instrument. Heck, I'd at least lead that current events Bible study I've been thinking about. I'd confront my boss about being given more responsibilities. I'd try negotiating a salary for once. Who knows, maybe if I weren't such a snob, I wouldn't scare the boys away. Nobody likes to be measured against an infinite standard. And one thing is definitely true: if I were not afraid of being less than perfect, I would dance for anyone who asked.
This imaginary person is not me. At least not the earthly me. An annoying little voice in my head insists, however, that it's who I was created to be: my "Garden of Eden" existence, or my heavenly one. And that means it's my responsibility to embody this fearless heroine or at the very least die trying. Otherwise, how much of my life has been wasted on fear? When I think about it, all the people I admire the most are the ones for whom money, loneliness, and failure don't get in the way. I ogle at the uninhibited.
Knowing myself, I'm probably not going to be able to quit fear cold turkey. I have to lower my dosage though. (Do they have a fear patch? Fear gum?) I have to learn to question my motives... to ask "What if?" with Kitty in mind. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to slowly sap fear's power day by day by day.
"God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, of love, and a of sound mind." -2 Timothy 1:7
