Starving the Fear

I am in a really nice place in my life.  

Apparently, for the first time, I'm in a "normal" relationship. As normal goes, anyway.

And I have no idea what to do with it.  

My default mode is to take a step back and eye it warily. The fears start to whisper at me. I'm rude to it and try to quell it. But it's so natural for me to be skittish. My history with most of my significant relationships have taught me to react this way. People don't stay. Particularly if you disappoint. And I always disappoint. Particularly if you're not enough. And I'm never enough. Particularly if you are too much. And I'm too much. 

I met a wonderful couple this weekend at my favourite watering hole. They know my beau. Think quite highly of him. They were shocked that I had children who were as old as they were. And that I was a grandmother. They declared me not old enough for such things. They also declared me quite lovely. And told my beau I was a keeper. She's a writer and I am going to help her launch a blog. He's a jazz pianist and I wished this watering hole would have had a piano. They are both delightfully unique and joyful and they will be a couple I won't soon forget. Some encounters are like that. You meet these people that touch a special spot in your soul. A small moment can leave lasting inspiration, joy, wisdom, or a fond smile. 

And it's moments like this where I wonder. Maybe I'm just a small moment kind of person. A person that should just move on. Maybe I'm not a person that should try to take root in a relationship.  

That's the fear talking.  

And I was charged this week with starving the fear.  

Starving the fear while feeding the happiness. The joy. The pleasure. The hope. 

I have no idea how to do that. None. I find myself stumbling and bumbling through this; feeling entirely out of my element. It makes me want to retreat. Regroup. Rethink. Instead, I'm trying to take a step forward when I want to take a step back. Say an honest thing when I would prefer to stay silent. 

I'm prone to overthink. I'm prone to assess all the risks then mitigate them. And yet - what if there is no reason to overthink this? What if the risks I think are there, aren't? Fear has an insatiable, glutinous appetite. And hope is a skinny, count-every-rib, pot-bellied, sunken-eyed creature. I like to think hope has had a fair shake - a voice - but it really hasn't. Fear has bullied it, abused it, and withdrawn the necessities of life from it. And I'm not really sure how to nurture it back to a robust, gleaming, vibrant part of my life. But here's the thing about hope. It's been on life support on more than one occasion, yet, as depleted as it is; it's scrappy. It's ability to survive in this overwhelming inhospitable atmosphere of fear is an indication that feeding this hope gives it a really good chance of flourishing. It knows how to find the light. It bursts through the cracks where nothing else can take root. Hope is tenacious and fear is a liar. 



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