When the Fear Comes

The Sycamore

by Wendell Berry

In the place that is my own place, whose earth

I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,

a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.

Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,

hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.

There is no year it has flourished in

that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it

that is its death, though its living brims whitely

at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.

Over all its scars has come the seamless white

of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history

healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection 

in the warp and bending of its long growth.

It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.

It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.

It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.

In all the country there is no other like it.

I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling

the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.

I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,

and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

I feel like this year is one crisis after another. In the grand scheme of things, they are not crises at all. I know this. And yet, my spirit is so easily and stubbornly anxious.

Things have a way of resolving with time. Of course, every new crisis seems like the exception. This will last forever...this is the thing I'll look back on and say it ruined my life...this is the thing that will ultimately take the sweetness out of life for me.

I don't know where I learned to be so afraid. Past experience never taught me. In fast, past experience says things nearly always turn out better than I expect -- at least, the important things. And this is not the case for everyone, so I don't take it lightly. Yet, here I am, often feeling like the sky is about to fall on me, only to look around and realize the sun came back out. Why am I so anxious?

Maybe I was born with fear in my bones. Maybe it's a primal sin, one of disbelief in goodness. One of self-sufficiency -- bootstrap living -- this sense that there is no safety net of grace and benevolence. A buying-in to the idea that evil, pain, sickness, and harm are the laws of the land and in the end, they'll win out. Or they might, if I'm not worried enough about them to scare them off.

In these ridiculous but real times of crisis, when the fear in my bones shows itself for what it is, my instantaneous reaction is consumption. Meaning, let me consume all the "hope" and "beauty" and "assurance" on social media and Netflix so that I can cover my fear with it. Or, let me consume that new product or cure or the pretty clothes at Target so that I have the joy of newness in my heart. Consumption of other people's experiences, or beautiful images and products, makes me feel better for a few minutes because I feel like I'm not alone. I feel like I can borrow someone else's ok-ness and it will make me ok too.

But it does not fill me from the inside with the assurance that God is with me, or working in and around me, or just in general that Love is in charge. Consumption does not remove the fear of catastrophe from my bones, it just gives me company for a little while. It buoys the spirits, but it will not give them wings.

I don't know if this is fully or always true, but I've noticed in my life that creating and acting bring me out of anxiety much better than consuming. By this I mean, when I do something to find my inner voice -- like write, pray, paint, run, hike, commune with nature, worship, sing, host a party -- I inexplicably and almost supernaturally believe in goodness and safety again. My soul feels more at home in my imperfect body on this imperfect earth, in a way the glimmer of perfection when consumed can never match. I think this is what Philippians is talking about when it says to stop being anxious by praying and giving thanks, because then "the peace of God which surpasses understanding will guard your hearts and minds." We lay our worries down and sing a song instead. We (literally or metaphorically) create a melody and write some lyrics and somehow this simple act transforms us into people of peace and assurance.

My songs lately have been few. I've opted for consuming other people's "songs" instead of doing the hard work of coming home to myself. But today I'll sit here and write my prayer and write some other words and turn on the music and go for a run, because creating space for God like this is the only way I know how to stop the stubborn anxiety of my tiny, yet mighty, human heart.