Here's what I've forgotten: to trust my mind to stillness. Instead, I've been fighting like mad under the tempting assumption that to let the mind still would mean that there's nothing to stop the avalanche of dread, worry, anxiety, and worst-case-scenarios from coming toppling down from where they've been shoved and shoved again.
But that, doves, is the crux of the illness--this belief that it takes all of our brute strength to ward off the messy onslaught of our minds. And the ridiculously unfair and cruel thing about worry, about anxiety is that the more we struggle, the more it manifests. Think of it this way: a glass of water on your desk, when left alone, will not rush up and topple the glass, soaking everything in its path. Of course not--that's not the nature of water. It takes a force--the wind, the moon, the tides, gravity--to inspire movement, gentle or violent.
We are our own act of god--we provide our own force by struggling to hold everything back. But here's the secret--if we were to walk away, truly walk away, then nothing would topple. Nothing would drown us. In fact, if we could sit in front of that precarious junk pile in perfect silence, nothing would stir and we, like water, would find stillness.
And it would finally, finally be quiet enough to rest.