On Monday, I baked pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, my kids’ favorite. I’ve made the same recipe dozens of times, but this week I tweaked it a bit. I spooned the much-runnier-than-usual batter into the 24 holes on my muffin pans, baked for two minutes at 350 degrees Fahrenheit, then removed the warm but still soupy batter from the oven, scraped all 24 circles worth back into the mixing bowl, added the three cups of ground oats that were sitting neglected on my counter, then spooned the mishmash back into the circles for another thirty-three minutes of baking. “I’ve never seen that technique on the British Baking Show,” you might say. That’s because—unlike me—the contestants don’t seem to suffer from brain fog.
The muffin baking ordeal was a comedy of errors from start to finish: forgetting what I was baking, looking for the recipe on my phone when the cookbook was open in front of me, making three trips to and from the pantry to retrieve an item that was already sitting open on my counter. “Maybe it would be best if you don’t turn on hot things when you have brain fog,” one might argue. And one has a point.
Thankfully, nothing burned down. But my muddled thoughts took a decidedly inflammatory turn as I laid on the couch recovering. “This is it,” the voice in my head warned, “The beginning of your slide into full-blown dementia.”
Fear, that chatty Cathy, adores my brain fog. She bounds alongside me when it flares, peppering me with unanswerable questions: “How long will this last? Will it get worse? Can you handle taking care of the kids tomorrow? Next week? Will you be able to work a year from now? How soon until you end up living in a nursing home, with a ninety-year-old roommate, who reminds you to take your socks off before getting in the shower?”
Fear asked all of these questions on Monday. But then this thought occurred to me, and it changed everything: “What if I choose love instead of fear? What would love ask right now?”
The answer was obvious and simple. When my symptoms flare (or when life gets hard for any reason), love asks only this: “What now? What do you need to do right now?”
What could I do right then and there to nourish and care for my body? I did the obvious thing. I rested. And I put my fear to rest, too. I rested in love.
Does that sound ridiculously cheesy? Maybe it is, but it worked. There must be some truth in the Bible adage that “perfect love casteth out fear.”
What if instead of just coming to terms with illness, we strive for something bolder, more audacious, and okay fine, also cheesier? (When you’ve been sick for this long, you’re allowed to be as cheesy as you please; you’re allowed to be whatever the hell you want.) What if we strive for love—to love every cell of our bodies, even the ones that are acting like miserable little shits? What if we strive to love ourselves through the flares, love each other through the ups and downs, and even (gasp!) love those lucky sons of bitches who don’t understand what we’re going through?
Think of love as a helpful supplement if you’d like. You might take turmeric to decrease inflammation or Vitamin C to boost your immune system. Well, love inhibits fear, boosts absorption of the positive experiences in our lives, activates the parasympathetic nervous system, and has pleasant side effects, like the warm fuzzies.
What’s not to love about that?
Okay, fellow cheeseballs! I know there are at least a few of you out there. What role is love playing in your healing journey?
Absolutely love trumps fear every time! I was recently told a story/ parable…
A little child was being read a bedtime story by his/her grandparents and it goes like this…
Inside your head live two wolves, one wolf stands for love and the other wolf stands for fear, and they are always fighting. The child asks the grandparents, which wolf wins the fight? They answer, why the wolf you feed of course.
Hope you like it 😊
After another roller coaster week… this is exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you! ❤️