Member-only story
Rewilding Anxiety
Anxiety. Anx-i-e-ty. Anxious. Anxiety.
Anxiety is a river. Learning to navigate this force begins at home when I’m alone. I wash the dishes, swept into an anxious current of wrongdoing. The Sugar Ants will take over if I don’t. Lined up on either shore, the Chant Singers rumble in slow harmony, “Do it right, do it right, get it done.” Their blue-black bodies sway from side to side. I paddle into a heavy mist of shallow breath and clumsy fingers, seeking the correct action. I might not scour away all of the crusted foodstuff or drop and break a dish. The countertops are sticky, and the Chant Singers open their voices. “Get it right, get it right, watch out, you’re going to do it wrong.”
Outside, the summer foliage is taking over the back deck. I should trim it. An anxious current pushes my canoe into pounding heart waters as I visualize the long waving grasses and overhanging trees taking over. I will never get on top of life. I won’t get it right and will freeze in the onslaught. My knees hurt from standing too long. The river splits into a boiling tributary, bucking my canoe and pulling the paddle from my hands. I’m lost, without an anchor in endless pain. There is no end. I make it to my desk, but the keyboard is the pebbled shore of self-expression.
“You can’t be here,” the Chant Singers wail, their robes billowing into the sky. “Cover up, hide, protect, but…
