When I was two years old, we moved for the first time. We packed up our belongings and hopped on a plane that took us from Honolulu, HI to Midland, MI where we planned to spend a couple of weeks visiting my grandparents.
That couple of weeks turned into a couple of months because my mom was too far along in her pregnancy to fly. So we had to wait until baby brother decided to make his grand entrance into the world. And he did, on April 30, with a bright red face and a full head of black hair. Six weeks after that, we all hopped on a plane again and what was likely two (or three) plane rides and a ferry boat ride later, we arrived on the island of La Madalena, Italy, the place we would call home for the next three(ish) years.
I don't remember much about my time in Italy. After all, I was two and a few months when we moved there and I was about four and a half when we left. My memories of those two and a half(ish) years are quite vague. A trip to Denmark. Climbing the hill to Neuschwanstein. Playing at Sandy Hill beach.
And then there was the rock.
There are a lot of rocks on La Madalena and not very many trees. And so myself and my siblings, being the adventurous children we were, climbed many a rock during our time in Italy.
I have this memory of one particular rock. It was a tall rock, sort of set off by itself. And there was something peculiar about this rock.
You see, it was hollow. The rock was tall and had a big hole on one side of it and was completely hollow in the middle.
One day, I wandered over towards this rock to examine it. I looked inside and somehow fell into it.
I was terrified. Here I was...the age of three or four, stuck inside a rock. I didn't know how to get out. I didn't know how to get anyone's attention. I thought I was going to die in there.
Sooner or later, my parents found me. I suppose my big sister wondered where I was and got them. But regardless of how it happened, I was lifted out of the hollow rock, my theoretically imminent death postponed.
I mentioned this memory to my mother once. In comparison to the other memories I have of my early childhood and my time in Italy, it's the most vivid. I remember the curiosity of the rock, the intense fear of death, and the intense relief when I saw my father's face peeking over the edge of the rock's hole.
It turns out, this never happened.
There was no hollow rock in Italy and I never fell in it. I never had a brush with death only to be saved by my father. I dreamt the whole thing up. I don't know if I dreamt it when I was a young child or if I dreamt it when I was older, but either way it never happened.
It wasn't real.
There was a part of me that was frustrated and confused that the most vivid memory I have of my time in Italy is something that never took place. It was all made up in my head. I don't even know if a rock even vaguely resembling the rock I remember exists. But my mom was adamant about one thing — even if the rock exists, I never fell in it.
As I continued to reflect on this nonexistent memory, it dawned on me that life is a lot like me falling in the rock.
So often, the things that we fear the most, the things that terrify us to the point of an inability to act, are completely ridiculous. They have no grounding in reality. They are incredibly unlikely to happen.
This happens to me a lot. I'm a worst case scenario person.
If you tell me we need to talk, I will immediately assume the absolute worst. If I can't get a hold of someone, I assume they're dead on the side of the road or kidnapped or something. I will immediately assume that some of my worst fears have come true, even when they're absolutely ridiculous.
Why do we do this to ourselves? What is it about those fears that render us incapable of action? Why do we fear the unrealistic?
I think about this in relation to my writing a lot. I find myself incapable of continuing work on my novel because of a whole slew of fears.
In reality, my book might get rejected by one (or five...or more) publishers. In reality, my book might get some bad reviews. In reality, my book might never become a best seller. These are all legitimate concerns that pretty much every single writer encounters.
But are those my biggest fears? Nope.
My biggest fears are that my book will be published and not just get bad reviews but get no good reviews at all. Ever. By anyone. I fear that my book will receive ridicule akin to the kind that literary atrocities (that really don't deserve to have the word "literary" associated with them at all) like 50 Shades of Grey receive. I fear that people will read my book and will say, "This is an example of how not to write a book."
And this absurd fears render me unable to do what I love.
And you know what? That's so dumb!
Yes, chances are, there are going to be some people who don't like my book. They might not think it's well-written or they might not like the story or they might not like a whole slew of other things about it. But it's not those fears that render me unable to write. I know that those come with the business of being a writer. Rejection and critique in some form is inevitable.
As I've become more aware of the absurdity of these fears — both in relation to my writing and my life in general (don't even get me started on the ridiculous fears about my personal life) — I've been better able to combat them. I'm more equipped to sit down and (somewhat) rationally recognize that these fears are unrealistic and should not prevent me from doing what I loved and feel called to do.
Chances are, I'll trip on a pebble or two, but I'm not going to fall in the rock.
What are those big, unrealistic fears that keep you from your dreams? What are ways you try to combat those fears and fight against them? Why do you think it's the completely unrealistic fears that so often render us unable to do things?
Photo Credit: Beast from the Bush. Used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Like what you're reading? Consider liking me on Facebook or following me on Twitter!
The post Falling in the Rock appeared first on Shades of Shayes.