The Door You Cannot Enter Whole
La puerta por la que no puedes entrar entero
A reflection on the fear that arises when life pulls us toward what we truly want, and how the part of us that contracts must be left behind in order to pass through.
The Door You Cannot Enter Whole
A reflection on the fear that arises when life pulls us toward what we truly want, and how the part of us that contracts must be left behind in order to pass through.
The kind of fear I want to explore here is one that needs little disclaimer. We all recognize it: the fear that accompanies a deep longing to move in a certain direction, a terror we know is out of proportion. We can see clearly that there is no real threat, not in the way there would be if we faced genuine danger. And yet the fear is immense.
Imagine having a deep desire to speak in a group, or, as a pianist, to perform. There is a longing pulling you forward, and simultaneously a force pulling you back. In a sense, it is a fear of fear itself. The fear of moving with what we truly want is the part of us that contracts, that pulls into smallness, that cuts us off from our deepest desire. And it is not merely a personal want. It is the very movement that life is making. Life is pushing in a direction, and then we fight it.
Becoming friends with fear
It is worth exploring what it means to become friends with fear, so that the fear of fear dissolves. When that secondary layer drops away, fear becomes simply an energy that can move. It can even be seen as something other than fear. This is sometimes called transmutation: a certain quality of energy shifts and changes into something else. But in my experience, it does not so much change from one thing into another. Rather, it is seen more clearly for what it already is. In that perceptual shift, that change in interpretation, the very essence of the feeling seems to transform. Fear can be seen as passion, as love. The energy was never what we thought it was.
The door
Here is a door. What it presents is this: if you cross through, something of you cannot enter. Something needs to be left behind. And we crave that crossing, because we crave aliveness and freedom. But the part of us that needs to be left behind is precisely that smallness, that separation, that contraction. So we experience this push and pull. We want to hold on to the contraction, and we want to go through the door, and both at once is not possible.
What we truly want
This is also why I speak so often about inquiring into what we truly want. I trust that in all of us there is a moving force. Its direction may change, but it is always a force of deep, deep desire for life, for living. And because fully surrendering to that force means something in us cannot remain, we find ourselves torn. We settle for desires that do not challenge the contraction. We listen to wants that are not as deep. And those lesser wants are unsatisfying, because we are getting something, but it is not what we really want.