AT­TIL­LAH SPRINGER

The last thing I want to give up is fear. The fear that fol­lows me. Fear of dreams. Fear of the things I fear most com­ing to find me when I least ex­pect them. Fear of loss and fear of alone­ness. Fear that past mis­takes will come back to bite me in the boom­sie. Fear that be­liev­ing that every­body is ca­pa­ble of lov­ing every­body else is a ter­ri­ble and waste-of-time hip­py fan­ta­sy. Fear that we re­al­ly are hope­less and that I am re­al­ly just an­oth­er self-in­dul­gent pos­er pre­tend­ing that I care about mak­ing a dif­fer­ence when re­al­ly some­where in the back of my sub­con­scious is lurk­ing some bu­lim­ic who re­al­ly wants to play mas with Tribe. Fear that it is too late for us now. We re­al­ly gone through and no man­i­festo, no sci­ence, no for­eign con­sul­tants can save us from eat­ing our chil­dren and de­stroy­ing our beau­ty. This has lit­tle to do with Lent and even less to do with my make-be­lieve Christ. But I guess re­li­gion is about over-ac­tive imag­i­na­tions seek­ing mean­ing in a bizarre and in­ex­plic­a­ble world. The sac­ri­fices that we make are sup­posed to make us bet­ter peo­ple. The sac­ri­fices that we make bring us clos­er to God in our­selves. The desert with­in is the desert with­out. We choose whether we have the strength to emerge stronger on the oth­er side of the jour­ney.