Fear & Imagination
In childhood it’s so obvious—the monsters we were so afraid of were clearly imaginary. But as we grow, it’s not that we outgrow fears, although it seems so, but those of us with vivid imaginations simply use them to create anxieties more acceptable to adults: math, flying, heights, spiders, death, joblessness. They all appear reasonable and adult, but they’re just a repackaging of the bony hand that will grab your ankle from under the bed, or the eyes on whatever’s behind the closet door. Our brains are quick to associate, and slow to correct, as current science and philosophy show. And what is imagination but hyper association? When we think of someone unimaginative, it’s that they are dull, and can’t make creative connections. When my kids were little, I used to say to them, “use your powers for good,” and like nearly everything, I was really saying it to myself. Our imaginations can be used positively or negatively, and once we get into a habit of negative, we get stuck.
What I’ve noticed, is that when we have fears, or worries, or anxiety, or have a deficit like lack of sleep, or water, or exercise—we’re able to say what our fears are in minute, loving detail, down to minute-by-minute, but we can’t say what our hopes are, other than general, gosh it would be nice if it was good. That’s partly because of the way we’re trained, but it’s also a reasonable outcome of “lottery thinking,” where we buy a ticket then fantasize for a while about what we’d do with the money, then we don’t win then we wish we hadn’t gotten our hopes up. We feel like we’ve been burned somehow.So if that’s familiar, what do we do about it?
Well, first of all, give yourself a little laugh and ruffle your hair about the lottery thinking. We’re human, and it’s adorable, but it’s undeserved money. It’s a random gift. By spending a lot of thought on it, we’re not spending the time appreciating and developing the random gifts we already have: our skills, our experience, our gratitude. For the more everyday worries and fears, notice that you’re writing. You’re writing a story about how you climb the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower and you fell. Which means that you can write a different story with a different ending. You climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower and it holds you. The view is spectacular and the wind is thrilling. You take a few photos, climb back down and go to a cafe and have a glass of wine or a coffee. It’s really tough to do the first time, and the fiftieth time, but at some point you’ll tell someone about it and realize in one part of your life you’ve done it. Then you’ll get sideswiped in another domain and you have to start over, but you’ll be better at it, after you kick yourself for already knowing about this. Fear is not bad, it’s not anything—except a well-crafted tale that’s been given time, attention, and love.