Fear and Courage

Fear restricts, constrains. The fearful brain can't imagine opportunities, only threats. And the options, when faced with fear, are limited - hide in the hopes that it will disappear, or fight against its source - real or imagined. The third, more challenging option, is to summon the courage to look our fear from all sides, poke at it a little, ask it a few curious questions and see if it remains solid, or turns to dust.

Little by little, courageous act by courageous act (big or small), we begin to see fear for what it is - a shadow on the edge of our imagination, one that could overtake us, but doesn't need to.

Fear keeps us from reaching out to our neighbour, while courage takes us through the uncomfortable place of not knowing another to the well worn seat of friendship.

Fear makes us wonder what great tragedy might befall us, while courage opens our eyes to what's possible if we stretch, through hurt and uncertainty, to the other side of struggle.

Fear divides us, depleting our confidence in our own goodness and in that of others. Courage allows us to see who we are without turning away, accepting ourselves and extending that acceptance out into the world.

Fear is a natural human response, an instinct with a purpose. Left alone, experienced purely, it will dissipate as real threats subside. Fueled by imagined enemies, however, fear will overtake us, shut us down, block the light.

But even in that darkness, there is a way out, a path to hope and possibility. That path is courage.

How to assemble a BBQ: A beginner’s guide

1. Begin with a level of confidence that is entirely unwarranted.
2. Open box, unpack pieces and ensure they are strewn about in no particular order. Place parts a sufficient distance away so that when you are delicately holding parts together and need the next piece, you have to contort yourself uncomfortably to get it.
3. Place hardware, in its flimsy plastic case, on an uneven surface. This guarantees the contents will spill and you will be left scouring the floor for its tiny contents.
4. Read the first step of instructions several times, trying to match the pieces in the diagram with those in front of you. Turn pieces around in your hands, looking at them from all angles. Repeat for every subsequent step.
5. Express relief aloud that the bolts, washers and nuts for this BBQ only come in one size.
6. After affixing the first few bolts, washers and nuts, realize you were mistaken about #5, and you simply didn’t read the diagram carefully enough to see that bolts, washers and nuts come in two sizes. Carry on.
7. Try to use the “wrench” that came with the BBQ to tighten the nuts as instructed. Throw said “wrench” aside in disgust. If you feel so inclined, go and get a real wrench. If not, assure yourself it’s not that important.
8. Struggle through assembly, doing with two hands what clearly requires four.
9. Curse and sigh at regular intervals.
10. Persevere until assembly is complete. Tell yourself your confidence in your BBQ assembly abilities was entirely well placed.

February: A letter written with icy fingers

I detest you, February. You've always been among my least favourite months, but I've deepened my disdain for you his year.

You may be the shortest month in days but you are the looooooongest, most offensive and meanest in spirit. I consider myself pretty laid back and easy going (at least I did until you came around this year) but you have tapped into something primal within me, something that makes me want to scream from the very core of my soul in the hopes that it will scare you into hiding. But I know you. I know that would only cause you to spit more venomous ice and snow, mixed with freezing rain for good measure. Worse yet, you would delight in it (as you have no doubt been doing).

I get that my resistance to you only makes you more powerful. I've tried to like you - or at least accept you, but I find your redeeming features so difficult to see, let alone name, that I am left feeling close to defeat. And yet, February, I'm not willing to give you that satisfaction. So here's what I've learned from you during this Godforsaken, never-ending, not-quite-over month:

- In spite of you, I can stand upright and balanced most of the time. You've tried to knock me down and sometimes you've come close, but mostly, I've held my footing.

- If I take a deep breath and resist the temptation to spin my wheels (literally) to no effect, I can sometimes free myself and my accompanying car by turning the wheel to get myself out of the rut. And the feeling that I've taken a different action and gotten a different result is pretty darn satisfying.

- You bring people together. No matter where you go in Atlantic Canada these days, people are gathering in solidarity against you. They too feel blue, fed up, beaten down - and they're speaking up. They're bonding over driveways caked in inches of ice. They're commiserating over the lack of road salt and sand, over cancelled plans and snow turned the grey-brown colour of despair. They're wishing, individually and collectively - to escape you for someplace warmer, kinder. And whether they make their escape or not, they know - we know - that we are better and stronger than you. We will survive.

- There is always July. When you seem interminable with your petulant wind and snow and icy rain tantrums, I know you will not last forever. You will soon run out of bluster and make way for the slightly more malleable March and the more optimistic April, and so on. Before we know it, you will be a distant memory we discuss (or not) over drinks on a sunny patio. And I, for one, will revel in it.

So farewell, "dear" February. Your time is drawing to a close. Do what you will in your final days. We can take it. And whatever you do, don't let the icy door hit you on the way out.