Lowering my hands

I was scared. Without any other need or reason, I placed my hands over my eyes as my soul clung for dear life. It was a familiar pose, and yet looking back at me as a little boy I realize covering my eyes did nothing to remove the object of my fear. I suppose it offered me a sense of safety, but only a sense. Only when I lowered my hands was I able to breathe again and get on with my life.

I’m braver now, but, if I’m honest, I still lift my hands and cover my eyes, often. I still think if I don’t look at something it will go away. I do it with unexpected bills, difficult conversations, even my health. I also cover my eyes when it comes to my spiritual life. I suppose I hope my doubts and many failings will somehow disappear, or at least recede, into the margins of my life if I cover my eyes. 

But just as the adult encourages the frightened child to lower his or her hands, I must use whatever words I have, whatever compassion or empathy I can muster, to encourage myself to lower my hands and look at what there is to see. In the end, whatever I find will be better than the darkness my hands provide. Monsters will disappear, storms diminish, and eventually I will be able to breathe again.