In my most recent blog, I mentioned that, during my years as a young working adult in downtown Chicago, I learned some precious lessons on my bus rides to and from the city. These were lessons powerful enough to remain with me for the next 40 years. What follows is another such lesson.
In some respects, I can’t really call this one a lesson. It more closely resembles a religious experience, or even an “out-of-body” experience. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered and, until recently, it has never been repeated.
In my early twenties, I had what some might call a borderline nervous breakdown. Following some serious family trauma that I smugly thought I had coped with as best as anyone could, I found myself suffering from panic attacks. They would strike at random and occur in places where I had previously been comfortable. Particularly troublesome were cafeterias and restaurants, though even shopping malls created their own special challenges.
While dining out, my hands would shake uncontrollably - so much so that it was doubtful the fork would reach my mouth without losing half of its contents. Soup was completely out of the question. I began eating only sandwiches, and even those had to be negotiated with as little use of my hands as possible. Someone watching me might have suspected I was bobbing for apples. All told, each dining experience served as reinforcement that the next one will be worse. And, it always was.
At the mall, signing my name on a receipt was an anticipated horror. I fully expected my heart to race, my knees to buckle and to perspire as if I had just completed a marathon. Thinking I found a way around the impending crisis, I tried paying cash in lieu of a credit card. However, I soon discovered that the alternative offered little relief as my arms and hands shook while presenting the cash.
In a nutshell, I was afraid of everything and everyone. I was afraid to eat in public, to sign my name in public, and to be seen by the public. Beneath that fear was the bigger, deeper, more intense fear that others would see me tremble. Thus began an avoidance pattern that, had it been left uninterrupted, would surely have led to full-blown agoraphobia.
The panic attacks lasted for a couple of years. Looking back, I had no choice but to plow through each day in order to earn a living. I did not have the luxury of falling victim to my self-imposed neurosis. In that regard, there’s a lot to be said for forcing yourself to do the things that terrify you – desensitization, I believe they call it. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but she’s also the godmother of grit.
However, there is one single event that I attribute to my cure. I knew that my panic attacks were fear-driven, and while I couldn’t understand the drivers, I recognized the power and control it had over me. One evening, as I sat and trembled on the bus for my 50-minute commute home, I asked myself, as I had countless times before, why I was so afraid. As usual, that answer was not forthcoming. However, another answer slowly crept over me.
From my seat at the back of the bus, where I typically sought shelter, I began to look at the back of each passenger. One at a time, I studied his broad shoulders, her wool hat, her auburn hair, his stooped posture and her animated gestures that flashed with poppy-red nail polish. I moved from one side of the bus to the other, not missing a single passenger. As I studied, I was overcome with the realization that each of these people had lives, stories, sorrows, joys and, essentially, were probably very much like me. It wasn’t just a feeling of being “overcome” with emotion. I was blown away by it. It took my breath away. For the first time in a long time, I was no longer alone; I was a part of them.
I began to feel a genuine affection, if not even love, for each and every one of my fellow passengers. It was all I could do to stop from getting out of my seat and reaching over to any one of them with a smile and a touch. I couldn’t see their faces, but somehow I was connecting with them on a spiritual level. Having never been a “spiritual person,” this was a marvel to me. And, as my mind wound around them, my body relaxed. On that day, love trumped fear so magnificently.
This “lesson” came to mind just recently as I finished reading Wm. Paul Young’s The Shack. Again, I’m not a spiritual person (though I would like to be), nor a religious person, and even confess to tortuous questions about God and our purpose in life. However, there are occasions - I’ll call them gifts - when a mystical presence enters your heart and it is felt so vividly that it alters your physical and mental behavior. I experienced my second lifetime magical moment after reading The Shack.
I have always been terrified of wasps and, in line with my annoying avoidance characteristics, would allow this fear to outweigh the joys of being outside during the summer. The day after reading The Shack, I forced myself to do some needed yard-work. As I weeded and trimmed, it occurred to me that my fear was far less intense that day. I immediately knew why. The warmth that I was feeling went far beyond the sun on my face and arms; it was an internal heat. It was a tenderness that soothed and occupied every inch of my heart. There was simply no room for fear; it was already crammed with a plump African-American woman, a not too-good looking carpenter and a gossamer butterfly lady.
It can take years for it to happen again, but one magical moment can lead to another.
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