Box of Darkness

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

Mary Oliver, Thirst


Have you ever been scared? Not alarmed by a sudden noise or afraid that the monster your older brother told you lived in the vacuum really might exist, but really, truly scared? The kind of scared that is in-your-bones, absolutely all you can possibly think about, “I’m not sure I’m going to make it out of this” kind of scared?

I have.

I recently was tasked to write a piece on the time I was the most scared and how it changed me. In reading the work of others who were given the same assignment, I was struck by the variety of terrors that people endure. One person wrote about being in a combat situation, one wrote about finding her father in the throws of cardiac arrest. A good friend of mine wrote about her absolute horror of finding out she was being transferred to KANSAS (this is a Manhattan girl, mind you) and another wrote about a car wreck that left her a paraplegic. I wrote about the first night I brought my daughter home from the hospital. I was alone, three days post C-section, not able to take pain meds because I was the only one there to care for a three day old, the power was out for the entire night, and it had become abundantly clear that this “situation” I was in was not going to work. My faithful readers will likely read this essay in more detail elsewhere in the near future (**fingers crossed**) but as I sat alone, heart aching, whole body trembling because of the physical pain, sitting by candlelight, trying to figure out how to nurse a child who refused to eat, not able to call anyone because my phone hadn’t charged for days, I realized that I was scared out of my mind. The kind of bone-deep, in your face “I’m terrified” scared I had never experienced before.

I didn’t like it. At all.

Since that time, I’ve had the opportunity to make a lot of changes in my life. One of the blessings of my divorce is that I am able to live my life entirely on my own terms. I’ve spent a lot of time really thinking through how I want to live and how I want to raise my child. I redefined my priorities. I set boundaries. I defined my goals and I found ways to start working towards them, despite the never-ending cycle of dishes and laundry and workdays. Throughout this whole process, the one tenet that keeps coming up, over and over and over again, is that I don’t want to be afraid of living a full and complete life, even if that means falling down, or getting hurt, or feeling rejected. I don’t want to be scared of new things and new experiences, and more importantly, I don’t want to teach Riley to be scared of them. I want her to embrace new things and new ideas and new people with open arms. I want her to see me reaching out and dancing with all that life offers me. I want to show up for my life.

Writing the aforementioned essay made me really think about the times I’ve tackled things that have scared me, and a pattern began to emerge. When I’ve done something that scared me, pushed myself even though I wasn’t sure I’d make it, or have taken a deep breath and jumped into the unknown…spectacular things have happened. When I've found the courage to keep going on, despite being frightened, I'm rewarded with something that makes up for the terror.

So, here’s to being scared and doing it anyway. Here’s to taking a deep breath, closing your eyes, and pushing through. Here’s to speaking your truth, out loud, everyday. Here’s to loving completely, openly and honestly. Here’s to being yourself, accepting yourself, and being ok with who you are. Here’s to embracing the nights that scare you, the days that haunt you, learning from them, and setting them aside.

Here’s to the box of darkness that someone gives you, or maybe you give yourself. Here’s to remembering that it, too, is a gift.