Fear of an Unfulfilled Life. Can Freedom Be the Antidote?
My fear is not death. My fear is an unfulfilled life. How birds can inspire philosophy while doing mundane tasks.
My fear is not death. Dead is dead. I won’t notice.
My fear is living an unfulfilled life.
A life drowned in commonplace, superficial babbling.
My colleagues are masters at it, as is my best friend. Why can’t I? Even thinking about these conversations makes my skin crawl.
“What horrible weather yesterday. Luckily today it’s sunny…”
“Oh, I saw a program on TV last night about a woman who met a man…”
“My cousin’s mother-in-law has this pain in her stomach…”
During the washing-up, my day floats through the kitchen. With my hands in the tepid soap. Rubbing the plates with a sponge. Care. Is that mundane? Or is it the essence of life?
My left-hand splashes the soapy water. The feeling of bubbles on my skin. Flimsy, warm bubbles. As soon as they splash, they tingle. I smile.
The syringa blossoms.
From my kitchen window, I watch a tiny bird disappear into the large pink bush. A bigger blackbird follows into this inner sanctuary. A twig in his orange beak.
Imagine how safe they will feel. Winding branches to sit on. Leaves, bracts, and everywhere fragrant pink flowers. Safety.
How would dead feel? As safe as a syringa bush?
And what about an unfulfilled life?
These birds don’t think about it. They whistle. They mate. They lay eggs. They feed their young and then they die.
Could life be so simple?
I spread my arms and invite an abundance of breath into my lungs.
“Breathe out with force!” That’s always the instruction from my best friend.
Breathing into the earth. Deep, deeper, deepest. Down through my legs. My feet. My toes. Far into the caverns of blackness.
The earth layers feel rigid. I sense obstacles. Sometimes a syrupy texture. Then again, hard as a rock.
But I push through.
Clashing, slithering, stumbling. Down into the grooves.
My breath doesn’t babble. My emotions don’t babble. My thoughts sometimes babble, but not often…
They all bounce. They roar. They paint silvery circles in my head until I’m spinning out of control.
And then, finally, I see the challenge.
My babbling friends are accompanied by my own reflection.
The mirror-images are bobbing along with the stream. And I experience comforting, conflictless recognition.
The mirror-images become wrestlers. Fighting against the river flow. Forcefully paving their way. Showing the truth. About me. About others. About my own arrogant judgments.
The irritation surfaces. My calves tense. My shoulders tighten. My hands ball themselves into fists.
Crack!
Both my feet land firmly. Back on the tiled kitchen floor.
A drinking glass shattered in my fist. Trickles of blood mingle with the soapy bubbles. The water turns pink like a syringa bush.
The only sound is an old fashioned clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It takes two seconds before I burst out laughing!
Roaring laughter! My body shakes with it.
One brazen knock on the window and the little birds fly from the bush.
Out of their comfort zones. Away from safety. Towards freedom.
Surpass fear, little birds. Fly! Fly free!
My thoughts of today are tomorrow’s reality.
Where will I go? To Iceland? Or to Patagonia?
Thank you, Mike, for adding your wise energy to my more poetic words on life, death, and freedom.
