One meets fear at the start of an endeavour. Before the first step is even thought of, it asks so many questions to which answering, unknowingly most times, takes more effort than proceeding with the task itself. Yet fear is not the opposite of love, as it may oftentimes be misconceived as, for fear comes with love and is of it. Fear brings concern and seeks certainty, in the name of the beloved which must be kept safe. The only time that fear lies may be when it tries to question the beloved’s capability, but it only does so in an effort to take all possible measures to keep the beloved safe.
It is misguided at best, however. There is nothing more worrisome than an endeavour fully secured. Think of a warrior going into battle with all the available armoury. On its own, it seems reasonable to go with everything that you have to keep you safe, but place that same person on a battlefield that is empty: from one end to the other, the warrior brings all the weight with him, and keeps on a look out from every direction. If they were to really try to do this, even taking a single step would be difficult. The worry would eventually compound from just keeping their self safe, from making sure their arsenals are working, and even to keeping in mind to not shoot themselves in an attempt to keep alert of their surroundings.
Now think also of how many ‘invincible’ ones have met their ultimate demise, and how a fully equipped house is the best temptation for a thief.
The point is not to avoid preparation completely, but to see its limits and illusions. More secure than an armour is resilience. Resilience can only be acquired through exposure. Here we can see the more important point of fear: that is it, in itself, not be feared. Fear asks so that we may be reminded of love, which is not ignorant but fully aware and yet takes the risk with much courage and faith. Take fear’s questions and look where love hides between its lines. Those are the very gaps through which resilience can bloom.
As a writer, I look at my work by every thousand words. Often, I see as my daily goal the completion of just the first thousand words. This is plenty enough for me to take seriously, and not so much that it would be too daunting as a regular objective. However, sometimes, when working feels difficult, I look at it as a remedy for the difficulty. I would think that I need only to overcome the first thousand words, and then everything else would be better, easier, the rest of the words would flow more smoothly after that or that I would get enough motivation to continue whatever it is I need to do.
Yet if one observes the physical phenomenon of writing, it would seem as though the difference between the first thousand words and the next thousand words are negligible. In theory, after the first thousand words, the next ones would be easier to get out, but honestly, writing one word is the same as another. I am almost at three thousand words now and there is no difference between the amount of effort and energy needed for me to write the first word and this one. The action itself is the same. How I approached that first one, more or else, is how I am approaching what follows it. I have been writing so many essays and papers now, and if I were to depend on the process of writing itself to improve the experience, there would be not much of a difference. The hell of going through one article is the same as the next, just with differing contents and contexts.
Perhaps this phenomenon is why people continuously struggle with writing or with making art: when one approaches it with much struggle, with much pain, hoping to just get through, one would eventually find that no matter how many getting through’s there are, they would still struggle for the next one.
There is no overcoming fear, for without fear, there would be no courage, no point in getting stronger, no way of qualifying resilience. And with fear—rejoice!—love shines brighter and is made stronger.
Let us take the writing example to understand: suppose fear comes with you as you write and with loving hands you take it along for the ride. You do not answer its curiously anxious inquiries with reasonable attempts; instead, you acknowledge the uncertainty and together decide if it is worth taking the first step anyway. Then you do it together. And the next, and the next. The uncertainty never leaves; fear’s questions never vanish. This is a good thing: now you both see them clearly, where and what they are. I think that is much better than being fully equipped in an empty battlefield not knowing if there are adversaries in the first place. Now when you move closer or farther from these, you can do so with love.
Now what does that mean, to do something with love?