I used to be terrified of snakes ... all snakes ...
It began when I was four or five and chased into deep mud by boys carrying snakes ... not sinking sand but mud that sucked off rubber boots ... mud that required the other kids to get a Bell telephone repairman off a pole to rescue me ... I think I would have run the mile in three minutes if anyone had chased me with a snake after that ... and did ... a couple of times ...
People have tried to teach me about them ... have taken me to places where I could learn about them ... used logic ... used my feelings about animals ... all to no avail.
I realized they were right ... but my gut reaction was abject terror.
I tried to control that terror in order to prevent my own children and theirs from inheriting it from me ...
One daughter was walked across half an acre of land, her tiny hand in mine, so that I could show her the nice garter snake. I nearly broke the bones in her hand enroute.
A grandson was similarly introduced to a snake in the bottom of a canoe ... and it was all I could do to stay there with him as I encouraged him to admire its lovely colours and appreciate its role in the natural scheme of things.
But my own gut said "KILL ALL SNAKES, before they kill you."
Today I realized that I may have overcome that phobia.
Kenya and I were down at the shore where I put the kayak in the water. I was filling a bucket for the garden.
A tiny water snake slithered past and Kenya was very interested.
I realized that it had a leech in its mouth. I seldom see leeches on that side of the cottage so I was more interested than frightened or horrified. I told Kenya to leave it be ... that it was cleaning up the shoreline of leeches.
And that is when I realized that I may have overcome the irrational fear I used to have.
I overcame my second phobia (fear of heights) which began during my first pregnancy, when, about a dozen years later I was living in a school house that was still being renovated and lacked a staircase to the mezzanine. My sewing room where I made almost everything my children and I wore was up there ... and the only way up was via a step ladder. I zipped up and down that ladder several times an hour some days ... and without even realizing it I discovered one day that I was no longer imprisoned on the ground by an abject fear of heights.
Tomorrow I will teach all morning ... my teaching partner is very ill ... she suspects giardia ... and won't likely be in till Thursday. The news required an abrupt change of plans ... but that is not the sort of thing that terrifies me ... not the sort of thing that immobilizes me ... not one of my phobias ... thank goodness.
Showing posts with label fears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fears. Show all posts
Monday, 24 May 2010
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Meanderings of a Murky Mind in a Mad Mad World
I've always thought that truth was stranger than fiction but I just learned of a situation that makes my head spin ... and gives me an idea for a piece of fiction ... Imagine this ...
A very old, very Catholic woman raised a large family of children in relative poverty in one of our poorest provinces. For many years she has been in the care of one of her daughters. Now that she is at the end of her life, demented and bed-ridden, her situation is deplorable.
The daughter could not stand living in the same house with her because of her mother's dementia so she moved next door and set up a baby monitor between the two houses. Other family members have tried to persuade the care giver to get some respite care for the mother in an institution that is better equipped to handle elderly bedridden patients, but she is adamant. No mother of hers will end up in a home.
The situation has deteriorated to the point where the old woman is in terrible pain from suppurating bedsores and an allergic reaction to the renovation. Oh yes ... did I mention that the caregiver, in order to find an income for her unemployed son, got a government grant for renovations to the old woman's house? One of the family members has forced that renovation to stop and that has created a situation in which the caregiver now refuses to speak to her siblings.
Why don't the siblings force the issue of an old age home? The caregiving sister has legal guardianship. Probably the only way to effect a change would be for family members to put the matter in the hands of the authorities, and who wants to do that to a sister?
The caregiver is feeling martyred. The family members are feeling helpless. The old woman at the centre of all this is enduring the most horrible end of a life.
If she were a child, no one would feel any compunction about calling Children's Aid.
If she were a dog or cat living in such conditions, the Humane Society would be contacted immediately.
But she is a ninety-three year old woman whose plight is being hidden away in a bedroom by an entire family whom she raised.
I wish I knew how to do something to help. The family doctor visits by the way ... and has not forced the issue ...
Someone asked me the other day what I feared most. This is it: being old and sick and alone.
A very old, very Catholic woman raised a large family of children in relative poverty in one of our poorest provinces. For many years she has been in the care of one of her daughters. Now that she is at the end of her life, demented and bed-ridden, her situation is deplorable.
The daughter could not stand living in the same house with her because of her mother's dementia so she moved next door and set up a baby monitor between the two houses. Other family members have tried to persuade the care giver to get some respite care for the mother in an institution that is better equipped to handle elderly bedridden patients, but she is adamant. No mother of hers will end up in a home.
The situation has deteriorated to the point where the old woman is in terrible pain from suppurating bedsores and an allergic reaction to the renovation. Oh yes ... did I mention that the caregiver, in order to find an income for her unemployed son, got a government grant for renovations to the old woman's house? One of the family members has forced that renovation to stop and that has created a situation in which the caregiver now refuses to speak to her siblings.
Why don't the siblings force the issue of an old age home? The caregiving sister has legal guardianship. Probably the only way to effect a change would be for family members to put the matter in the hands of the authorities, and who wants to do that to a sister?
The caregiver is feeling martyred. The family members are feeling helpless. The old woman at the centre of all this is enduring the most horrible end of a life.
If she were a child, no one would feel any compunction about calling Children's Aid.
If she were a dog or cat living in such conditions, the Humane Society would be contacted immediately.
But she is a ninety-three year old woman whose plight is being hidden away in a bedroom by an entire family whom she raised.
I wish I knew how to do something to help. The family doctor visits by the way ... and has not forced the issue ...
Someone asked me the other day what I feared most. This is it: being old and sick and alone.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
What are you afraid of?
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately about what makes me tick.
Yesterday the humidity was so high that the floors downstairs were absolutely wet with sweat ... as was the refrigerator. No amount of wiping dry lasted more than a minute or so. I dug out the fan and when I went to bed, I turned it and the one in the downstairs bathroom on to try to dry things up overnight.
This morning things were a little drier but not much. I will have to get a dehumidifier today before my company arrives. Otherwise they will be slipping and falling on the slick slate floors.
This morning I was washing the towels I had used to wipe up the water and my washer stopped dead saying there was a problem with the electrical system. There was a brief hydro outage but it could have been the heavy load that caused the brain fart. Damn! Another service call.
I don't sleep well when I am alone, but I don't fear the things most people, especially women living alone in an isolated place, would fear. I don't worry about intruders of either the two- or four-legged kind, for example. I seldom think about getting sick or having accidents while I am here alone. What I fear is that this house will fail in some way.
That fear is not unfounded ... the roof failed, for instance ... and I had the flood in the spring. So I think what happens to me is that whenever things are not quite right I begin to fear that the big bad wolf will blow my house down.
What sorts of things do you fear?
Yesterday the humidity was so high that the floors downstairs were absolutely wet with sweat ... as was the refrigerator. No amount of wiping dry lasted more than a minute or so. I dug out the fan and when I went to bed, I turned it and the one in the downstairs bathroom on to try to dry things up overnight.
This morning things were a little drier but not much. I will have to get a dehumidifier today before my company arrives. Otherwise they will be slipping and falling on the slick slate floors.
This morning I was washing the towels I had used to wipe up the water and my washer stopped dead saying there was a problem with the electrical system. There was a brief hydro outage but it could have been the heavy load that caused the brain fart. Damn! Another service call.
I don't sleep well when I am alone, but I don't fear the things most people, especially women living alone in an isolated place, would fear. I don't worry about intruders of either the two- or four-legged kind, for example. I seldom think about getting sick or having accidents while I am here alone. What I fear is that this house will fail in some way.
That fear is not unfounded ... the roof failed, for instance ... and I had the flood in the spring. So I think what happens to me is that whenever things are not quite right I begin to fear that the big bad wolf will blow my house down.
What sorts of things do you fear?
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
On Fear and Feeling ...
There were several interesting responses to Ann of Annarchy's post on fear. Some people quoted others ("I learn by going where I have to go." Roethke). Others expressed their own thoughts. One of my favourites was this one: "The things that scare me the most often lead the way into a deepening of my heart." Hiro Boga
Fear seems to be a popular topic these days. In her latest blog entry, Marta wrote about fear in quite a different way. She focused on what she realized when she was terrified that she might lose everything; that her life might be over. That was when she understood that there was just one thing that really mattered. For her it was that she must tell the stories of the disappeared.
I want to think about these ideas. It will be a bit of ramble. Be forewarned.
I know that I too " learn by going where I have to go." One of the benefits of "just saying yes" is that you grow through the experiences by facing your fear of the unknown. Maybe I do have to just jump in instead of assuming I can't do that any more. I used to be that kind of person.
Building this house marked a turning point for me. It has been the experience that made me afraid of being alone because self reliance is sometimes just plain impossible here if you are no longer young or you do not have lots of money or you lack the practical skills necessary. Maybe it was the confluence of growing old at the same time as embarking on a young person's project.
I need to do some more thinking about Boga's comment. It rings true on a gut level but I think I need to get into that quiet place where I face my own worst fear and allow myself to follow the thread to the truth that one's heart deepens; that one doesn't simply grow intellectually or psychologically by experiencing difficulty. I am too accustomed to thinking about things. I need to learn better how to feel.
Maybe the movement from writing to painting will help me get there.
In the past I have taken baby steps toward that place ... often helped by children.
Many of the things I experienced while living in Africa taught me empathy ... that unspoken sense of kinship that transcends intellectual awareness. There were all the children who needed to go to school. There were the people I met who needed medical help to survive. There were all those unnecessary deaths. But perhaps the closest I came to experiencing the pain and poverty of others was when I held an African child in my arms while a nurse used a bent safety pin to dig parasitic worms out of his fingers and toes. The tears that flowed down his cheeks made my throat ache.
Here in Canada holding small grandchildren against my heart has opened my heart in a way that goes beyond intellect. Their hearts beating against my own have dried tears ... theirs and my own. Their heart beats have led me into places where words disappear, become irrelevant.
A few years ago I was very frightened. I was suffering from depression and felt very alone. It didn't matter that I was surrounded by people who cared about me. One of the worst things about depression is that you are absolutely alone in the most crowded and loving places.
During that period I went to a house concert at the home of Mud Mama and Papa Pan. The Wild Thing was an infant at the time. I spent the evening rocking him and drawing strength from his warm little body against my own. We communicated through heartbeats and inarticulate sounds. We didn't need language to love.
Fear, like love, is inarticulate, and I am sure that it too can deepen my heart. I think I just have to open my heart to its teaching.
As for Marta's realization that was a gift of fear ... I need to explore that as well. Most of the time I find myself just thinking that there is nothing I really want to do still; that death would be a relief from the fear. But that may be the result of having stopped exploring. Maybe the writing door has closed and another door has opened. Maybe I need to explore other things like painting. Or maybe the writing door will be re-opened by going to the Great Blue Heron workshop.
Paul McCartney said, "Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young."
Maybe I have to start exercising my imagination again and taking chances by just saying yes. Maybe by exposing myself to new worlds and new fears my heart will deepen and I will learn by going where I have to go. And maybe I have to be near children again in order to experience these things. Maybe I have to re-think my hermit's life and open up to the possibility of living closer to people who love me.
Fear seems to be a popular topic these days. In her latest blog entry, Marta wrote about fear in quite a different way. She focused on what she realized when she was terrified that she might lose everything; that her life might be over. That was when she understood that there was just one thing that really mattered. For her it was that she must tell the stories of the disappeared.
I want to think about these ideas. It will be a bit of ramble. Be forewarned.
I know that I too " learn by going where I have to go." One of the benefits of "just saying yes" is that you grow through the experiences by facing your fear of the unknown. Maybe I do have to just jump in instead of assuming I can't do that any more. I used to be that kind of person.
Building this house marked a turning point for me. It has been the experience that made me afraid of being alone because self reliance is sometimes just plain impossible here if you are no longer young or you do not have lots of money or you lack the practical skills necessary. Maybe it was the confluence of growing old at the same time as embarking on a young person's project.
I need to do some more thinking about Boga's comment. It rings true on a gut level but I think I need to get into that quiet place where I face my own worst fear and allow myself to follow the thread to the truth that one's heart deepens; that one doesn't simply grow intellectually or psychologically by experiencing difficulty. I am too accustomed to thinking about things. I need to learn better how to feel.
Maybe the movement from writing to painting will help me get there.
In the past I have taken baby steps toward that place ... often helped by children.
Many of the things I experienced while living in Africa taught me empathy ... that unspoken sense of kinship that transcends intellectual awareness. There were all the children who needed to go to school. There were the people I met who needed medical help to survive. There were all those unnecessary deaths. But perhaps the closest I came to experiencing the pain and poverty of others was when I held an African child in my arms while a nurse used a bent safety pin to dig parasitic worms out of his fingers and toes. The tears that flowed down his cheeks made my throat ache.
Here in Canada holding small grandchildren against my heart has opened my heart in a way that goes beyond intellect. Their hearts beating against my own have dried tears ... theirs and my own. Their heart beats have led me into places where words disappear, become irrelevant.
A few years ago I was very frightened. I was suffering from depression and felt very alone. It didn't matter that I was surrounded by people who cared about me. One of the worst things about depression is that you are absolutely alone in the most crowded and loving places.
During that period I went to a house concert at the home of Mud Mama and Papa Pan. The Wild Thing was an infant at the time. I spent the evening rocking him and drawing strength from his warm little body against my own. We communicated through heartbeats and inarticulate sounds. We didn't need language to love.
Fear, like love, is inarticulate, and I am sure that it too can deepen my heart. I think I just have to open my heart to its teaching.
As for Marta's realization that was a gift of fear ... I need to explore that as well. Most of the time I find myself just thinking that there is nothing I really want to do still; that death would be a relief from the fear. But that may be the result of having stopped exploring. Maybe the writing door has closed and another door has opened. Maybe I need to explore other things like painting. Or maybe the writing door will be re-opened by going to the Great Blue Heron workshop.
Paul McCartney said, "Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young."
Maybe I have to start exercising my imagination again and taking chances by just saying yes. Maybe by exposing myself to new worlds and new fears my heart will deepen and I will learn by going where I have to go. And maybe I have to be near children again in order to experience these things. Maybe I have to re-think my hermit's life and open up to the possibility of living closer to people who love me.
Monday, 20 April 2009
The Fearful Hermit
Ann of Annarchy wrote yesterday about fear. She posted an excerpt (far more polished than this post will be) which inspired me to think about my own anxieties and fears.
I traveled alone from a very early age because my only parent lived 1200 miles from my foster home. When I was 9 I began flying by myself between Halifax and Toronto. In those days the plane landed at every airport between the two cities: Ottawa. Montreal, St. John, and Fredericton, and Trans Canada Airlines (now Air Canada) flew people about in DC3's which had propellers and wings that almost flapped. Any kind of storm activity buffeted them about like lone Canada geese who'd flown off course. I was a child who suffered horribly from motion sickness. The manufacturers of Gravol can thank me for their solvency ... all those landings ... all those air pockets. The first thing I checked out when I sat down and buckled myself in was the pouch containing the air sickness bags.
The very first time I flew was in 1949. It was Christmas and I was seated with Commodore Adams who was returning to Halifax to meet his ship, Canada's only aircraft carrier, the Magnificent. He left us in New Brunswick to take the train the rest of the way because the weather was so bad. He offered to take me with him but the stewardess who was responsible for me on that leg of the flight couldn't allow it. I landed in a terrible storm where my father greeted me on the tarmac holding Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer in his hands.
You might think that that experience would have made me afraid of flying in bad weather. The truth is that it didn't. I have one of those fatalistic attitudes when it comes to flying. Once you are aboard you might as well relax. The odds are good that the pilot wants to get there safely just as much as you do and he is the only one who can possibly make a human difference. You certainly can't.
However, I do become anxious when I am traveling. I drop things. I get flustered and sweaty when I am lining up to check in my luggage. I worry about what will happen when I land in a strange airport. I fret about how I will get a taxi; how the shuttle bus system works; whether people will understand English. I wonder if there will be thieves and cheats hovering about looking for nervous white faces to prey on. This may surprise people who know me well enough to know that I have flown many thousands of miles to countries like Swaziland, Namibia, Mongolia and Jordan ... almost always by myself.
I don't worry about the flight itself, or about my well being as long as I have no responsibilities. Indeed I have flown on small planes whose seat belts were frayed, without working buckles or simply absent, where passenger seats held flimsy cages of raucous chickens and whose engine problems forced us to make unscheduled stops.
Once I was confined for half a day in a small waiting room because of weather. Not a word of English was spoken by anyone in charge. Every few hours someone would bring in a vat of tea that was far too small for the crowd. But I didn't worry. I just went about taking photos of the wall murals featuring herds of wild horses moving across a vast steppe. I was in Inner Mongolia ... on my way to Outer Mongolia. I was not supposed to be in Inner Mongolia at all, so I took advantage of the opportunity to explore the limited access I had to the place. I was more concerned about a man in the wheel chair who was kept separate from the rest of us than I was about myself.
Ann of Annarchy said, " Sometimes, recognition of who you are grows into acceptance. And if you're lucky, you figure out how to leverage that weakness."
I realize as I write about my fear here that I have learned something important about myself; something I have always hidden. I have masked that fear of being responsible for myself behind a facade of fearlessness; of being in control and damned glad of it. I have strutted and pounded my chest and declared myself a fearless hermit.
In reality I am scared silly when I have to face new daunting situations alone. I am frightened when my car breaks down or I can't figure out how to stem the water from a flood. I am immobilized by things like water damaged paint and ceilings because I am unsure of how to proceed or whether I have the skill, knowledge, equipment or strength to cope alone. Sometimes I just need to know that I can talk it over with someone. Other times I need their physical presence and their hands-on help. Sometimes what I need is for someone else to take over; to take responsibility; to keep me safe.
I do not suffer from loneliness out here. I am never afraid of going to bed alone with just Kenya in the house. But I am scared of being alone.
I am afraid of being absolutely alone with only myself to rely on.
That's a very important thing to realize about myself. Thank you, Ann of Annarchy. Now I will have to figure out how to use that knowledge of my weakness to make myself stronger.
I traveled alone from a very early age because my only parent lived 1200 miles from my foster home. When I was 9 I began flying by myself between Halifax and Toronto. In those days the plane landed at every airport between the two cities: Ottawa. Montreal, St. John, and Fredericton, and Trans Canada Airlines (now Air Canada) flew people about in DC3's which had propellers and wings that almost flapped. Any kind of storm activity buffeted them about like lone Canada geese who'd flown off course. I was a child who suffered horribly from motion sickness. The manufacturers of Gravol can thank me for their solvency ... all those landings ... all those air pockets. The first thing I checked out when I sat down and buckled myself in was the pouch containing the air sickness bags.
The very first time I flew was in 1949. It was Christmas and I was seated with Commodore Adams who was returning to Halifax to meet his ship, Canada's only aircraft carrier, the Magnificent. He left us in New Brunswick to take the train the rest of the way because the weather was so bad. He offered to take me with him but the stewardess who was responsible for me on that leg of the flight couldn't allow it. I landed in a terrible storm where my father greeted me on the tarmac holding Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer in his hands.
You might think that that experience would have made me afraid of flying in bad weather. The truth is that it didn't. I have one of those fatalistic attitudes when it comes to flying. Once you are aboard you might as well relax. The odds are good that the pilot wants to get there safely just as much as you do and he is the only one who can possibly make a human difference. You certainly can't.
However, I do become anxious when I am traveling. I drop things. I get flustered and sweaty when I am lining up to check in my luggage. I worry about what will happen when I land in a strange airport. I fret about how I will get a taxi; how the shuttle bus system works; whether people will understand English. I wonder if there will be thieves and cheats hovering about looking for nervous white faces to prey on. This may surprise people who know me well enough to know that I have flown many thousands of miles to countries like Swaziland, Namibia, Mongolia and Jordan ... almost always by myself.
I don't worry about the flight itself, or about my well being as long as I have no responsibilities. Indeed I have flown on small planes whose seat belts were frayed, without working buckles or simply absent, where passenger seats held flimsy cages of raucous chickens and whose engine problems forced us to make unscheduled stops.
Once I was confined for half a day in a small waiting room because of weather. Not a word of English was spoken by anyone in charge. Every few hours someone would bring in a vat of tea that was far too small for the crowd. But I didn't worry. I just went about taking photos of the wall murals featuring herds of wild horses moving across a vast steppe. I was in Inner Mongolia ... on my way to Outer Mongolia. I was not supposed to be in Inner Mongolia at all, so I took advantage of the opportunity to explore the limited access I had to the place. I was more concerned about a man in the wheel chair who was kept separate from the rest of us than I was about myself.
Ann of Annarchy said, " Sometimes, recognition of who you are grows into acceptance. And if you're lucky, you figure out how to leverage that weakness."
I realize as I write about my fear here that I have learned something important about myself; something I have always hidden. I have masked that fear of being responsible for myself behind a facade of fearlessness; of being in control and damned glad of it. I have strutted and pounded my chest and declared myself a fearless hermit.
In reality I am scared silly when I have to face new daunting situations alone. I am frightened when my car breaks down or I can't figure out how to stem the water from a flood. I am immobilized by things like water damaged paint and ceilings because I am unsure of how to proceed or whether I have the skill, knowledge, equipment or strength to cope alone. Sometimes I just need to know that I can talk it over with someone. Other times I need their physical presence and their hands-on help. Sometimes what I need is for someone else to take over; to take responsibility; to keep me safe.
I do not suffer from loneliness out here. I am never afraid of going to bed alone with just Kenya in the house. But I am scared of being alone.
I am afraid of being absolutely alone with only myself to rely on.
That's a very important thing to realize about myself. Thank you, Ann of Annarchy. Now I will have to figure out how to use that knowledge of my weakness to make myself stronger.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Contemplation of a Nomadic Summer
Two little tidbits for my traveling summer arrived in my mailbox today.
"Today I drifted [in the floating studio] with Camille on the Seine at Argenteuil. The views materialized and dissolved and I was as contented as a cow in her stall." (Claude Monet, 1874)
"Don't be afraid if things seem difficult in the beginning. That's only the initial impression. The important thing is not to retreat; you have to master yourself." Olga Korbut Gymnast - Four Time Olympic Gold Medalist
I have been dragging my feet about getting things done here. I am not sure if it is my body which is not up to snuff or if it is my mind creating a spider's web of ennuie that traps my body and sucks out my energy.
It is almost as if I am refusing to face the fact that I will be away from my hermitage all summer.
I plant herbs and tomatoes I will not be here to enjoy. I tend flowers I won't see blossom. But I don't pack up my life here and clean away my presence so that the place will be ready for other tenants.
Well ... I will just have to get a new take on things, won't I?
I will have to remind myself that this is an adventure. It is a chance to see the world with new eyes.
It won't be quite as peaceful a way to travel as Monet's. My car won't simply float along so that I can enjoy new views. But I can stop along the way and picnic with Kenya ... and Wild Thing if he travels with us. I can stop when we need a break from the TransCanada, and we can follow our senses to something more interesting ... take a road less traveled ... meander a bit ...
And once I get to a destination, a whole world will open for me. I really am looking forward to a month in Wolfville and to visiting friends and family I don't see often enough.
So ... I just have to get past this initial feeling that things are just too hard ... and focus on what I am looking forward to.
"Today I drifted [in the floating studio] with Camille on the Seine at Argenteuil. The views materialized and dissolved and I was as contented as a cow in her stall." (Claude Monet, 1874)
"Don't be afraid if things seem difficult in the beginning. That's only the initial impression. The important thing is not to retreat; you have to master yourself." Olga Korbut Gymnast - Four Time Olympic Gold Medalist
I have been dragging my feet about getting things done here. I am not sure if it is my body which is not up to snuff or if it is my mind creating a spider's web of ennuie that traps my body and sucks out my energy.
It is almost as if I am refusing to face the fact that I will be away from my hermitage all summer.
I plant herbs and tomatoes I will not be here to enjoy. I tend flowers I won't see blossom. But I don't pack up my life here and clean away my presence so that the place will be ready for other tenants.
Well ... I will just have to get a new take on things, won't I?
I will have to remind myself that this is an adventure. It is a chance to see the world with new eyes.
It won't be quite as peaceful a way to travel as Monet's. My car won't simply float along so that I can enjoy new views. But I can stop along the way and picnic with Kenya ... and Wild Thing if he travels with us. I can stop when we need a break from the TransCanada, and we can follow our senses to something more interesting ... take a road less traveled ... meander a bit ...
And once I get to a destination, a whole world will open for me. I really am looking forward to a month in Wolfville and to visiting friends and family I don't see often enough.
So ... I just have to get past this initial feeling that things are just too hard ... and focus on what I am looking forward to.
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