By Carolyn Riker
I wish the metaphorical rabbit hole, didn’t exist. But it does.
I’ve been avoiding some of my deeper writing, because it hurts. As much as I try to seclude certain thoughts and impending situations, I can’t hold back much longer.
And this is where I stand: At the edge of potential growth. This one feels ominous and crushing.
At first, I thought it was important to share the details, but I don’t. The particulars aren’t necessary because we all have challenges.
It’s a universal plight.
We often make choices or cope with a wide assortment of feelings in our long days. This is the norm of living. Introspection and insight can be amazing until it steps a few hairs over the ledge of terrifying. The twists and the turns become overwhelming and possibly reverberate into a terrifying fear.
Fear is debilitating.
Lately, I’ve been able to catch myself before I get stuck amongst the dark, thick roots of critical and doubting voices. I’ve been listening more closely when all sorts of inner flutes and cellos start going off.
I know for sure, hidden pieces of me are starting to bubble to the surface. It’s been a struggle, but I am learning to find ways to take care of myself.
I’m currently reading, Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. It is as if I met a kindred spirit. He’s become a soul-brother—although dead nearly nine decades ago. He speaks to my self-doubts with such a gentle and intelligent calmness; I sense him nearby, sitting in the warm beige chair next to me. All the while, I seek meaning, answers and hope to what swirls inside. Mr. Rilke’s wisdom consoles me: