How Not to Freak Out
Creating Imaginative Space When the World is On Fire
I can’t remember if it happened after September 11 or when anthrax was zipping through the postal service or if it was when our troops went off to fight in a war that no one seemed to understand. I can’t remember exactly the moment when our national dialogue got swept up in our fears. But, that fear was everywhere. We could not stop talking about how fear motivated and overwhelmed us. We started talking about the culture of fear -- an epidemic where our concerns about child predators, immigration, swine flu and terrorism elevated so dramatically that we were nearly paralyzed. And it hasn't stopped. We are afraid. We are afraid of gun violence, environmental destruction and our own economic security. We are terrified.
There are evildoers assailing our pensions, our security, and even the innocence of our children. We feel so chewed by the state of our world that we can’t help but turn to each other and say, “The world is such a scary place.”
It's not that we accept this as a fact. Sometimes it’s not even clear if we really believe this statement to be true. But, the problem is that this isn't the world that we imagined. It’s the world we have. Maybe even the world we created. But, we’re not comfortable with the way things are. It is almost Easter where we will peer into the tomb and wonder what will live. Because the tomb is that place. It’s where everything we ever wanted or hoped for comes to sudden, crushing end. It’s done.
John Shelby Spong says it best when he tells us that the tomb “stands as an ultimate barrier against all of the things for which [Jesus] stood. It means that his love was finite, his forgiveness was finite, his life was finite. It is now over.”
I have been falling into this kind of fear recently. I am getting stuck in this terror that the worst things are going to happen. I can’t see beyond the disaster and destruction, focusing only on what has been lost and who has been hurt. In my worst days, I’m aware of how this fear casts a shadow on every interaction. I’m not sure how to answer the questions of the Ukranian mom every day at pick up from the international school my children attend. She and her family were on vacation when the war began in her homeland. They decided not to return, though her entire extended family is still there. She wants so much to go home for Easter. I can hear her heartbreak in every word, every question.
She wants me to explain what’s happening in my own country and I don’t have answers. I have even fewer words for the Americans who stand next to me, waiting for their children, knowing that they haven’t changed their minds about the leadership of our country. They voted for him. Our children have gotten in skirmishes over it, without understanding any of the big ideas they are acting out. They have absorbed our fear. For my children, especially, I’m trying not to freak out.
One of my dearest friends is an adjunct professor at a big university. Her job is one of those that feels uncertain as big institutions make decisions about how to survive this political storm. She is also a Buddhist. I think I can say that. She also identifies as Christian but her spiritual practice is in the silence of meditation within a Buddhist community. It is her voice that echoes in my ears, when I am tempted to freak out. It is her voice that assures me: return to your practice. Find your center. Remember your place in things.
That last line isn’t my dear friend but a play on a poem by Mary Oliver reminding all of us that we don’t have to be good. Practice doesn’t mean one thing but a gentle movement to find your place in the family of things. Though it may feel like there are so many things that are ending, going into extinction without any possibility of redemption, the poet reminds us that the world offers us its imagination. We are invited to dream. To believe in the impossible. To embrace resurrection and redemption. To hunt for it in the world around us and dare to create it with our own hands. To embrace the uncertainty as an opportunity and not let fear consume. To risk the discomfort. To imagine that there is more out there than this terrible feeling that wakes with us every single day lately.
Neuroscience tells us that fear resides in the lower, primitive brain where that fear starts tugging on every button and lever, escalating the situation. Fear rises into terror. In that lower, primitive brain, it is the speed of the response that matters. It isn’t precise. It doesn’t dwell in the details but narrowly focuses in the need to respond to your fear. It’s what we often call tunnel vision.
When we are scared, we don’t dream. We don’t create. There is no room for imagination. It’s not so simple as confronting your fears, but instead allowing yourself enough room to move that fears out of the lower, primitive brain. To silence the alarms. To calm the jerking neural cords. To slow down enough to actually dwell in the details of your imagination. To explore it and play with it. To give space to that creativity and wonder what else might happen.
Start here with this song to remember this simple truth. You are not alone. I am not alone. We are dreaming together. Listen again and notice what happens within your body.
Begin in a quiet space where there is room to breathe and stretch. Allow yourself to settle into the wonder of this moment as you allow the past days, weeks and months to move before your eyes as if you’re watching a film. Notice what pops up, what stays with you and what feels most important.
Allow the song above or choose something without words to play as you go deeper into this reflection. Notice what other details you notice and what feelings arise. Play with the speed that the film reel plays. Slow it down when needed and fast forward through the parts where fear is a roadblock.
Consider what scene from this montage you want to hold. What feels expansive and open? What moment from that reel feels like a place for you to play? You might choose to write or draw this scene in your journal to understand it better.
Allow yourself to return to this practice again and again, ever curious about how that fear lives in you and where the scenes might be cut to create more space to dream.
Extra Credit: There are no gold stars in opening your spirit. It is a constant dance of reminding yourself what else is out there. If you are looking for more ways to open your spirit,
shared her recent sermon in which she references Substacker who shared this practice in her newsletter a few weeks ago. Try psalming it using both of these prompts to encourage and guide you.
How is fear living in your body right now?
What do you notice about the fear that lives outside you in the world right now?
What other ways do you try to practice not freaking out?
Poems for praying: All of my favorite poems in one place, especially for creating space for more imagination. Art is a great tool for this.
Words with wonder: A little guidance on how to pray through a poem, if you have never done it before and might want to try.
In a yellow wood: Which asks, what do you do when you are totally uncertain? And finds some direction through a very popular poem which might help if you can’t get anywhere around the fear.
Give me eyes to see: Or how to be amazed at the world around you (again).
Celebrating the whole season: Including 50 practices for resurrection which you can start now. I won't tell you it is too soon. We need redemption, always.
Luv ur offerings (& Mary Oliver too). Hope Easter is great for you. It’s a tough time we’re in for sure. 🙏🏻