Travel Beyond the Land of Between
A Counterintuitive Game Plan to Contain Fear
It was the day I discovered the pleasure of fear. As a candidate for ordination in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A) in 1989, I had to give my first a major talk to a governing body on why I felt called to the ministry. I was so nervous my body was shaking, but I disguised it behind a hefty lectern. A few minutes into the speech, I remember my fear disappearing and looking out at the congregation thinking: “This isn’t so bad; I’m actually enjoying this!” Time expanded, and instead of rushing through the speech, I felt at ease and became more animated. For a shy kid, this was a milestone. After that, public speaking became gradually less intimidating and more enjoyable.
It’s easy to be fearful when you’re between the familiar and something different and daunting, whether it’s between student and professional life or college graduation and an uncertain job market. In the medical world, you might be between a biopsy and the results, a procedure and its efficacy, the end of chemo and beginning of radiation, or the last treatment and the rest of your life. We all live in the Land of Between, but can we travel from there and thrive?
Stepping over fear is a sound strategy. Imagine fear as a scrawny creature with sharp fangs yipping at your feet. Greet your fear and name it; then taunt it. Take a high step over it; hurdle it. My psychologist husband, Rick, instructs anxious patients to look anxiety in the face and say, “Bring it on!” It’s as counterintuitive as leaning on the downhill ski, but it works. Our instinct to avoid anxiety only breeds more of it. Selective shut-down of the anxious brain—Rick calls it the birdbrain—is the mechanism for thriving. Just one small decision each day to greet the awkward and uncomfortable is all it takes. Before long you feel more alive, more in charge of your happiness. This applies to ordinary and uncommon fears, routine discomforts and worst-case scenarios. How much do you really want to thrive?
You only thrive on the other side of fear. I’ve had a lot of scary adventures with my three sons. One time my oldest son, Andrew, asked me on the spur of the moment to go lobster diving at 10 p.m. Before I could really consider my decision to join him, I was gliding into the black Pacific Ocean. Admittedly, I only skimmed the surface of the water guided by his bright flashlight while he dove to the bottom to catch the critters. Then the thought of nocturnal threats entered my mind. I needed a bold counter to chase it off, so I said to myself: “If I die on this adventure with my oldest son, I’ll die doing something crazy with someone I love like crazy.” Okay, the last part was true, and I only half-believed the first part, but the thought slammed the fear for a few minutes. Sometimes you have to engage the stupid to override the fear.
Riding motorcycles required a full-scale stepping over fear. Before each ride, the file in my brain labeled “Well-intended Stories of Crashes to Serve as Warnings” popped up. I developed a pre-ride ritual to hide the file: the traffic had to be cleared, the glare gone, the temperature warm, gloves snug, helmet tight, shield wiped. I didn’t ride because I was fearless; I rode for the magic of the throttle reverberating in baffled pipes and the torque and wind tossing my hair. I rode for the freedom, the vitality I felt. Many of our friends and family didn’t understand why Rick and I liked motorcycles. They saw it as a prefrontal cortex suppressor that downgrades you to a caveman state. I saw it as an exhilarating dance between fear and pleasure.
During college breaks I would go out with my youngest son, Nate, through local canyons. He looked like a guy from Easy Rider, sans chopper handlebars, with his beard and long hair waving under the helmet and his relaxed bike-handling skills. My ride was slower than his, but he was patient with his mama. One Mother’s Day, on a ride with Nate and Andrew, I thought I was the luckiest mom alive to spend two hours trailing her boys through California canyons. We leaned; we turned; we gunned it; we felt alive together.
The problem with fear is that it keeps us stuck in the Land of Between with our eyes on the obstacles instead of the possibilities. Prepositions like “between” are banal parts of speech that define a location or position. Between is stuck in the middle—a grammatical purgatory—a position over “under” but on the downside and “above” or “beyond.” The only way to travel from the Land of Between is to budge anxiety with the defiant taunt, “Bring it on!” somewhat like Macbeth’s challenge to fate, but not as fool hearty: “Rather than so, come fate into the list,/And champion me to the utterance!” (3.1.70-71). Macbeth calls fate to come into the arena to fight him to the bitter end. Up against long odds, he sees himself as a knight, going bravely into battle against fate itself. We, too, have to defy fear—a crazy and counterintuitive move—to keep progressing.
What if down the road you realize you’re living out the worst-case scenario and that you are actually okay? You discover there are good things in hardship, not only after it, glimpses of the terrible and the beautiful, anguish and delight, living side by side. I write this on the one-year anniversary of the first of seven surgeries and cancer treatments. There was both pain and awakening; I felt more connected to myself and others, more in tune with God. For some, the Land of Between is a Sahara, with only faint glimpses flickering in the distance, but they are enough to keep you moving. You discover a strength you didn’t know was there.
It was in the fall, between chemo and radiation, that I drove to my favorite nature preserve on the westernmost point of the Santa Monica Bay. My body was feeling stronger. Thighs and lungs burning and calves stretching, I relished the splendid pain of exercising as I huffed up the hill that used to be an easy walk. On the top there is a bronze plate commemorating the discovery of Pt. Dume by George Vancouver in 1793 on an expedition to determine the extent of settlement on the northwest coast of America. The expanse is ringed by a 360-degree view of ocean, cliffs, and mountains. I felt a connection to travelers on arduous journeys, who journeyed beyond the Land of Between to the moment of discovery. My heart welled up with gratitude, and I couldn’t stop saying “Thank you, Lord.”
If discovery lies on the other side of fear, I say “Bring it on!”