On Fear

When I am afraid I play small. I'm like a plant reaching toward the sun until fear sets in. Leaves curl under and fold against the stem. Then the stem recedes and everything returns to the earth — to the seed that once was. Yet there is no seed! My safe housing is gone. What have I done? I've composted myself into the earth — not a place of nourishment but rather a lost place. How do I even start again? How does a withered plant grow? It does not grow. It gives up.I cannot go to the store and buy another Kathy like I do with an endless rotation of succulents. When fear sets in like a harsh shadow, can I simply feel its coldness? Understand the barrier it's creating? And then find a way around? If I face fear head on, it allows me to grow and stretch. Forces it even. I have to reach here and there to find the sun. Send my roots deeper for nourishment. Reaching and striving — yet ultimately more stable.I look around and see I'm not a flimsy stalk of wheat but rather a glorious tree that spreads in various directions. My roots provide stability. My limbs and gnarled branches are survivors, and I'm more beautiful for the moss and other life forms they support. Fear is merely a challenge.I'm tired of playing small. No longer do I want to cower beneath the voice of someone yelling at me. I want to step out and grow and be the biggest tree I can be.