seeing: my room, unpacking messes, letters to be sent sprawled all over my bed.
smelling: the kombucha jars on my shelf, sweetly sour. The familiar home smell.
feeling: the faux leather couch I’m sprawled upon, blanket textures.
tasting: Lemon bubbly water
hearing: the little kids playing outside and sarah in the kitchen chattering to mom. My ‘orange’ playlist.
Pictures from an adventure this last week.
I hate falling.
From a cliff.
In my dreams.
At the fair.
I love feeling solid structure beneath me, whether a physical or emotional assurance. Grounded. Secure. Why I have such an abhorrence I’m not sure, maybe subconscious remembers reaching for a lying branch, falling far, waking up bruised and hanging by my knees who knows how much later. Or maybe it remembers the dirty feeling of falling morally, of missing the mark. That isn’t a bad fear, per se, I should strive to stay strong. It’s the fear that I have of myself (in a sense) that is wrong.
But such is life as a flawed being, falling (whether physically or otherwise) so what should I do with this fear?
I can either dwell in it, entangling myself until I’m a hyperventilating paralyzed mess, a rabbit with wide eyes afraid to move.
Or, I can find my grounding. I can sink my heels deep into my Savior and know that He’s got this. I can cling to His mane when the fears come running toward me, and know that His net is close below when I fall.
He walks with me and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own. There is no reason for me to replay these fears.