It’s funny as I think about it now, looking back from the grizzled and “experienced” perspective of my current 36-year-old self, the first time I realized – no, it slammed into me like an out of control semi-truck being driven by a blind 3 legged donkey – that I’m going to die, that one day (or night) I’m going to close my eyes for the last time and my conscious awareness will fade into nothingness. For the next 2 weeks after that realization, I laid in bed thinking and worrying about the inevitable “last dance”. Watching all those “Nightmare on Elm Street” movies didn’t help with my sleep situation either. I’m still amazed at the creative imagination a 16-year-old can express.
Being 36-years-old, a business owner, married, a father, and wearing a whole slew of other societal hats, I find myself experiencing tiny “fear farts” from time to time, as in my mind, the stakes are a bit higher. When they occur, silently and deadly, they upset the natural order of everything in which I’m in the middle of doing. There may come a time when I cease to be the man that I am, the man that I worked so hard to create and maintain. There will come a time when I will have to muster my resources and care for my super-awesome mother who possesses just the right combination of cantankerous-ness and affection. There will come a time when I will have to have those tough conversations with my son. There will come a time when my wife and I will be old and crusty and not want sex as much. There may come a time when either (or both) my wife and myself lose ourselves and can no longer remember each other. There may come that moment when I have to make the decision to continue to grow as personal trainer or just throw in the hat. Oh yeah, then there’s that little fear of the possibility that I could lose my ability to care for my wife and son. And then there’s the fear that I’ll leave this interesting world created (and driven lovingly) by the Kardashians without having made a positive impact on the entire planet.
All these small fears combine like tiny plastic army men, lobbing volley after volley of plastic grenades that are harmless in and of themselves; it’s just the IDEA that they’re being thrown at me that hurts a teeny bit. I’m thankful that God gave me so many ways to clear the air when a brain-fart smashes into my spiritual nostrils like a half-full water balloon thrown at 90 miles an hour: a pen, some paper, good times with my friends and family, purposeful activity, and the occasional drunk Hulu night with my wife. Even though I experience these fears, I’m thankful to have a solidly powerful present-moment anchor point from which to dropkick my fears and replace them with pleasing possibilities.
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