You're told that when you sit zazen things come up. And there are times they're not good things. When you sit, you sit. You're exposed to the naked now that your mind keeps flooding with thoughts. Over time, you learn to slowly quiet those thoughts and experience the present moment as it is-- life at it is, at this very moment.
And now I know why I don't want to sit. I don't want to face the fear. That naked fear that has grown in the past couple of months. The fear that I can't explain. I mean next to skin cancer I got the best kind of cancer you can get. I took the drugs, I took the surgery. I am surviving! Four months cancer free. But I don't want to be alone. Alone with my fear.
I know I should befriend it. Sit with it. Smile at it's relavent emotional tendencies. But I fill my head with any noise I can. Right now my Netflix queue has Law and Order, Criminal Intent ready to go. Reading is too quiet. I keep music playing in the house all day so that when I get home, I have something to listen to. I blast metal through headphones at the gym, and a mixture of anything at work. And I sleep to comedy.
I don't know why it's here. I know it's normal. I'm continually facing death in my adult prime. My father was running in the black market and forever screwing up his non-military life at this age. And here I'm facing the inevitable. I thought I was ready for it. But I'm not. I thought I've accepted death, but I haven't. And the most frustrating aspect of all is I know what I have to do.
This is one of those face your fears type of things. If it was a fear of flying, I would learn how to fly. Each time I sit, I need to sit with death: the fear, the emotion, the frustration, the depression, the unknown. Breath goes in breath goes out. Death goes in death goes out.
The other thing I know not to do is beat myself up over this. I mean come on, like this wasn't to be expected?!? Well, it really wasn't. I thought I had dealt with it. But the psychological conditioning that chemo puts you through surprised me. It was kind of fun. I got to see myself react in a way I never had before, and I knew what was going on. And it was temporary. In four months I no longer have an aversion to needles -- I nearly skipped out of the cancer center when I realized I just had blood drawn and I didn't flinch, whence or gag! -- and I can now stomach rubbing alcohol as one would appreciate a summer breeze.
Just as my life will pass, so will my fear. And then maybe I can enjoy more of life.
