I have a rubbery gorilla bracelet on my left wrist. Evelyn tells me it can summon monsters—even bad ones. There are 1,000 monsters in every city, she says. Details like these tumble out of her like Humpty down a wall.
We’re on the way to a Cub Scout event at a camp, and I can feel a kind of protection rising up—a mini force field I don’t fully understand. If I had my way, I’d make it disappear. Maybe it’s being around new people. Maybe it’s the sandals I’m wearing instead of tennis shoes—the quiet worry that someone might comment.
There’s an urge to fast-forward, to press a button and be done with it.
And maybe that urgency is what needs my attention. Maybe it’s asking me to listen to its fears, to soothe them, to comfort them. To remind it, gently, that I’ll show up and do my best.
By not acting in certain situations, I’ve gained peace. Clarity.
Discomfort and expectation can mix into a potent cocktail, and when I take it as truth, the pressure builds into urgency. The sped-up, high-throttle chest thump demands an outlet—an escape, something to expel it.
Or does it?
I’ve found that by not acting—by allowing the rush to rise and fall, because it does fall—the shaking ground steadies.
In that stillness, my lens widens. Context returns. Understanding. There’s space for contemplation and reflection.
In the moments I’ve truly listened—to my heartbeat’s song—this is what I’ve learned: pausing, waiting, being okay with doing nothing. And when the urge knocks, I open the door—not to invite it in, but to acknowledge it. I hear you. But I won’t be acting on you. You’re not coming in.
Then I return to my day. To my projects. To cultivate what I want to cultivate. Tending the tomatoes, tossing unshelled peanuts to the crows I’m slowly domesticating, refilling sugar water for the always-thirsty hummingbirds.
All is well.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 