FEAR

Fear

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that's where the river will know
it's not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

A few days after arriving in Korea, I read the poem below by Khalil Gibran, titled Fear. This poem served to continue my mulling regarding O’Donohue’s “threshold” post on October 1. In recent years, the image of the river has been a constant source of inspiration and imagination. O’Donohue’s Fluent speaks of desiring to live like a river, “carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”

Gibran’s mention of the “path” as a “long winding road” suggests the idea of surprises and discoveries along the way. Then the river is shocked by the sheer size of the “vast” ocean and trembles with fear. As much as I appreciate and love open space, I can identify with the word “vast” today. In some ways, I miss the “long winding road” or the path I have traveled and am familiar with. Now that we are here in Korea (Asia), it feels vast and open, evoking a sense of fear in me. I can picture myself as the trembling river, facing the vast ocean before me, breathless. During a bewildering moment, I wonder if I can ever go back and linger longer in the memories of the enchanting forests and villages.

Gibran switches to an emphatic language, “But, . . . the river can not go back,” and shifts the very imagination and attention to us, “nobody can go back.” As the fear dissipates, which can only arrive after letting the path take one to the ocean, the discovery of a new season of becoming opens up. As a river, becoming the ocean is an inevitable destiny. Resistance is futile.

In the face of the “impossible,” the only way to move forward is to “take the risk.” Without taking the risk, there is no disappearance of fear. Fear will continue to loom large. But as the river cannot go back, taking the risk really means to trust the flow of the river, and not fight the natural course of the flow, into the engulfing mouth of the ocean. However big and mighty the rivers are, compared to the ocean, it is only a drop in a bucket.

I love the first phrase, “It is said. . . .” It is as if Gibran is garnering all the perennial, trusted wisdom as his ally to invite readers to listen, and listen carefully. Gibran succeeds in getting my attention. Humility is also at play as the recipients of wisdom. Perennial wisdom is always humble and shy, inviting people to consider and seek, and never demanding or forceful. Receiving the timeless wisdom also requires humility. Humility recognizes humility. Today, I am at the feet of Gibran and drink his words deeply.