Have you ever been so silently scared that your body shut down, your soul went mute and your hair fell out?
And with my hair, it went: my strength. I gave up.
Yes, my fear is a type of faith, the faith that everything will go wrong.
At what age did I lose myself?
When did I become my own spiritual terrorist?
What dark agreement did I make to dye my life with mortuary paint?
Which color was the monster under the bed? I’ve slept on many beds since that unknown day, but the monster never left.
Fear, my fuel of hell, has kept me alive. And dead.
The application in my computer counts the words in this text.
Could I, in that same way, count the units of fear composing my thoughts?
I would freak out!
Where did our fear start? Where does it end?
Did it start with a whisper while we were asleep?
An unintentional statement from a parent that drew a tattoo in our brains?
Was it the dismissive word from a lover that wounded, like a stake in the heart, and the stake stayed?
Then when we were not aware, the voices echoed, the tattoo settled the colorful scar.
The wound infects.
Beware! Fear will lock you out of your own dreams…
Is there an antidote? Genau, correct, we know, it is love.
But not the kissy-touchy kind (which is fabulous on its own).
I mean the love for life itself. The trust in trust. The invisible candle that lights the path in the shadows of despair. The sourceless force that resurrects when Mom suddenly dies. The warm dew that bathes your every breath.
But where is that love? Where did it hide? Did we, in frantic digging, bury it underground to asphyxiate?
I think love is scared as well.
What does love feel when we manipulate and get away with it?
When we cheat on our mate?
What, when we allow kids in the millions to starve and go about our day?
What does it see when we pollute our seas?
What, when we slaughter an animal for a meal we can live without?
What, when we actually enjoy to kill for sport?
What does love feel when we sell others out of greed, when we negate ourselves believing we will never measure up? When we succumb to numb?
What world is this where fear is “god-alized” and its devotees grow as weeds, while love is pesticide fed and rolled into compost? Where did we get lost?
As we continue to give in, give up, love grows comatose. It sleeps.
We need to wake love up.
It will take a big inhale of pain that feels like death, until we can exhale again the life we are robbing ourselves from.
We have no choice.
Or we will stay on pause, and the pause is rotting all.
Maru Garcia was born in Mexico City, raised by an angel dressed as a warrior. As a kid, she wanted to be invisible when she grew up or become a contortionist so she could fit silently in little spaces. She has a degree in Nutrition and Food Science and believes in veganism as a living statement of love. She is a very imperfect yogi, loves animals more than anything in the whole wide world, and is a strong advocate for animals’ right to just be animals. There is often a dog, a kitten or a palm tree hidden in her purse on the way to safety. She often gets in trouble for saying exactly what she thinks and feels, no editing, that is her trademark. Her world tends to be often black or white, gray disorients her. She is in love. She lives in Playa del Carmen with her three dogs, two birds and one cat. She does not know yet how come or why she writes.
Ed: Caroline Scherer