As Thanksgiving approaches and turkeys everywhere tiptoe nervously through the brush, I can’t help but think about fears.
To be clear, it’s not the thought of eating myself into a coma that I am wary of, it’s the way I will be celebrating this particular day of thanks: a hunting trip into the backwoods of Fredericton, N.B. to catch our turkey day meal.
And if you can put aside your own personal grievances about hunting, let me introduce one of mine. I am terrified—no, horrified—no, petrified of birds.
It is perhaps the most irrational thing about me.
I can’t walk down the sidewalk without staring down each pigeon as it boldly edges closer and closer to my heel. Garbage cans in the park make me nervous because I dread the day when a warbler will fly out of one. I keep one eye open for seagulls when I relax at the beach and outdoor picnics are always accompanied by me not-so-subtly jumping up to stretch my legs every time a duck comes too close.
Perhaps this could be a rational fear if I had some excuse for being afraid of birds, if a vicious seagull had attacked me as a child or if watching Hitchcock’s The Birds had been my bedtime routine.
But no, according to my parents one day I just announced that I was afraid of birds.
For 20 years I never held a chickadee.
I’ve seen the same built-up fear in a lot of people lately. Whether it’s avoiding an assignment because they are afraid of failure or ending a relationship early because they are afraid of commitment, everyone has some sort of irrational fear-driven behaviour.
Now I’m not saying that all fears can be overcome with a plucky can-do attitude, but maybe the first step in facing your fears is to face up to your own pride and stubbornness. Step back from the situation and recognize your fear. Then, let yourself be vulnerable. Ask for help if you need it.
My own test of vulnerability was humbling to say the least.
I went to a popular bird-feeding place deep in the February woods. Of course, my mom came with me for moral support.
When the first winged creature swopped near me, I threw up the seeds and ducked.
My mom snorted and tossed me a pair of ski mitts.
Evidently, she knew this wouldn’t be easy for me.
So, donning my new protective gear, with my arm outstretched holding the seeds and my head turned away as if not to look at the horror that would take place, I waited.
When the second bird swooped down low, I was ready.
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