Facing Fear

Yesterday, I went hiking with my husband in a national park in Hong Kong. We went off the trodden path and veered off onto a narrow, craggy trail that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. This trail was covered on both sides with mulchy earth, gravel, shrubbery, undergrowth and sharp spiky things that scraped my shins and elbows and almost poked my eyes out. It was a steep uphill slog, and after about an hour of grabbing onto rocks and roots imbedded in the ground and crawling upwards along this claustrophobic track, we reached a rock face with no earth, no shrubs, no gravel and no loose rocks or branches to hold on to. The only way up was along a huge slab of imposing naked granite. We were about one thousand, three hundred feet above ground and it was about fifty feet to the summit. I was going to have to climb a fifteen-foot rock wall that jutted out of the side of the mountain at a seventy-degree vertical incline.

My husband led the way and I followed. I was terrified. I imagined losing my grip, falling backwards, the back of my skull cracking open after greeting the sharp edge of a hard and vicious boulder. I wrapped my body over the rock slab, looking only at the next groove that I could grip onto. I blotted out the images of blood, shattered bone and pain that the projector in my mind had decided to screen. I looked at how confident my husband seemed in the situation, I focused on the certainty he expressed that we would be okay. I took faith from him and pushed onwards. I moved like a lizard and was amazed at what my human form was capable of. My shoulders felt strong and simian as I put my weight on my palms, lifting my upper torso and heaving my feet onto the slim flat ledges that started to reveal themselves on the rock’s surface. Slowly I made it on to a bivouac where my husband was waiting for me.

We gave each other a high five and I told him how scared I was and that for a moment, I thought I might fall and die. “But it’s the most alive you’ve felt in a while isn’t it?” he asked. We talked about how overcoming fear was a most exhilarating experience. My husband said that in therapy and self-help books they always talk about overcoming fears, but that even physically, doing the things we’re afraid of makes for tremendous spiritual growth. I had never thought of it that way before. Perhaps pushing our physical limits does develop character, virtues of persistence and courage and increase our faith in positive outcomes. That would explain why the Hindus practice walking on coals, the Thais pierce their cheeks with knives and spikes, and the Satere Mawe boys in the Amazon stick their hands into jars of angry fire ants to prove that they have become men.

As a child, I was afraid of everything. In particular of the sea and of interacting with other human beings. My parents would take me out to a beach in Desaru, Malaysia. This beach was fringed with frothy white foam, its waters were a dark and ominous jade green and it roared. It churned with choppy with waves that were about four feet high and as a five year-old, that was very high. The moment our car pulled into the car park next to the beach I would start whining, not wanting to meet what I saw to be a furious and impatient sea. My parents would do their best to calm me down, telling me know much fun it would be if I would just relax and let the waves cradle me. But I imagined that these waves were intent of swallowing me and dragging me out to sea where the sharks were waiting for lunch. So I would do no more that stick the tip of my toes on the ribbon of foam that licked the shore.

After plenty of coaxing and molly coddling, my parents finally had enough. They stuck two children’s floaties on my scrawny arms and mom grabbing my left arm and dad grabbing my right arm; they dragged me with them into the water. I had no choice but to float along between these two grown-ups who seemed to feel that the sea had no desire to harm us. Once I’d calmed down a little, they would release my arms and I would bob unsupported, except for cheap orange plastic in the sea. I would freak out and paddle my little legs frantically, moving towards my parents. After what seemed like a long push, I’d finally end up in my mom’s arms and would cling to her like a parasite. My eyes and nose would sting from the salt water and I would be desperate to get back on land. But then, with one playful toss, my mom would throw me off her and into the arms of an approaching breaker and before I knew it, a blanket of water would come crashing above my head, filling my nose, ears, mouth and eyes with the burning sensation of salt.

At twenty, I once again had to confront my aversion to the sea. I was dating a man who was the captain of a wooden sailboat in Indonesia. He had built this boat from scratch, was living in it and had invited me to visit. The boat, a pretty, old-fashioned blue and red darling named Shakti was anchored in deep waters about a thousand feet from the shore. To get to sland, I had to swim till my arms, thighs and butt hurt. When I stopped to thread water and get some air, I would look around me and become aware of how vast the ocean was and how tiny I was. I would imagine the millions of living things, some with big teeth and venomous stings that moved below me, perhaps only inches away from my toes. and I would pick up speed and head shoreward. Sometimes the currents were so strong that no matter how hard I kicked my legs and separated the waters with my arms, I would still be at the same spot. Sometimes, the currents would gently push me against a giant coral that would take some skin off my knee. Sometimes it would move me sideways, away from the boat or land and again the fear of being swept away would visit. But I always made it to shore eventually.

Once, I was swimming near the boat. As I neared the bow, I saw a mouth, as large as a cave door approaching me from the other side of the bow. It was a giant fish, like nothing I’d ever seen. I was stuck in the water with a prehistoric monster and I knew I had to get away. I back peddled as quickly as I could to the ladder in the middle of the boat. Thankfully the beast was slow and I managed to pull myself up to safety. My heart was pounding and I felt grateful to be alive. I yelled for my boyfriend and he came running out. We looked down at the side of the boat and saw the thing. It was a thirty-foot long whale shark with a head and mouth that was about ten feet wide. According to my boyfriend, whale sharks are harmless plankton feeders and pose no danger to us humans. He was excited and he put on his snorkels and fins and asked me to do the same. I did as he suggested and we jumped back into the water and swam with the shark. I even rode on the creature’s back. Soon, more whale sharks turned up and we frolicked in the clear water with four of these gentle giants.

Now the fear of people was a different matter altogether. It was the one phobia that always came back no matter how hard I tried to overcome it. Unlike mountains or waves or whale sharks, I have to deal with people on a daily basis, so it surprises me that I haven’t completely overcome this fear yet. I’ve always secretly felt that I carry more anxiety in my body than is beneficial to me. Even on good days, I sense an underlying current of worry and paranoia building up within me for no apparent reason. When I young, my mom would take me to children’s parties, but I never wanted to join the other kids. I would just hide behind her skirt like a mouse.

I find people to be almost as scary as nature, perhaps because both are so unpredictable. Socializing seemed to be fraught with too much potential for turbulence, error and conflict. I have a problem controlling my actions and what comes out of my mouth, which can lead to trouble and also, I cannot predict or control how someone else will react in any given situation, which just makes me feel awkward, uptight and ready to fight or run.

After getting past that protruberant rock yesterday, it dawned on me that the root of all of my fears, including people-phobia was planted in my beliefs. My beliefs about height, about the sea, about big sea creatures, about human behaviour and most importantly about myself. I was lucky to have good people in my life who coaxed me into confronting my fears and who sometimes threw me into situations that I would ordinarily scurry away from. This helped me to see that my beliefs were not as real as they seemed in my mind. That giant rock near the summit was like a solidified mass of all the most negative and foreboding thoughts I held about the world I live in. I know I will come against that rock again and again, but at least today I have the memory of victory to drown out the voices that crie failure and doom. I know I will always make it to the shore or the summit eventually. I know that there are people who I can count on and who love me. I know that I can trust myself, and all of these are bigger than fear.

In the cult science fiction classic Dune, Frank Herbert’s super-being character Paul Atreides says, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Fear cannot be permanent, for if the emotional state of terror were prolonged, we would probably die. I take comfort in that. In my experience, the rewards of walking through fear far outweigh the consolation of never having to feel it.


Copyright, Feb 2012, Michele Koh Morollo

Merits of A Disciplined Mind

In my primary and secondary school days (from the ages of six to sixteen), irate teachers would banish me from their lessons because I was disruptive and failed to submit my homework on time. I hated having to sit upright and pay attention in class because it deprived me of the freedom to daydream or do the things I really wanted to – like vandalize the classroom tables with lewd cartoons, jerk my knees as quickly as humanly possible or put glue on my forearm and wait for it to dry, then peel it off. “Unruly”, “does not apply herself” and “undisciplined” were words that showed up on my report card every year. But when I look back at how my days were arranged as a youngster, I can see why the idea of discipline was repugnant to me back then. 

From Mondays to Fridays, I would wake up at 6am in order to make it to the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in time for a daily flag raising ceremony at 7am. Everyday, I wore a uniform– starched white coloured blouse under a pleated dark blue pinafold and lace-up canvas shoes. I had to pin on a badge with the school emblem on the top of my pinafold, near by heart. I would stand in a field with about 300 other young girls and we would sing the national anthem, while the school prefect hoisted the Singapore flag up a pole. Then with our fist over our hearts, we would recite the national pledge. For five days a week, I was trapped in this house of nymphets and penguins from 7am to 1pm. Three days a week, I would have religious education, which would always end with the Lord’s Prayer, a Hail Mary, a Glory Be and a hymn to Father Barre, the founder of the order of the Holy Infant Jesus Sisters.

When school ended, my mother would pick me up in her car and ferry me to piano classes, Chinese language tuition, math tuition, art classes, guitar lessons or Taikwondo session, and when I finally got home, there would be plenty of homework to do. I would go to sleep, and in the morning I would be back in the blue and white garb, standing on the green field again. On Saturdays, I had to go to church for catechism classes. After hearing more about the Virgin Mary and the carpenter, I would come home for a few hours then it would be time to go for sunset mass with my family before proceeding to spend time with relatives or my parent’s friends whose company I didn’t care too much for. On Sundays I had to learn how to ride a bicycle, swim laps, or play tennis, none of which I found pleasant, but my parents thought that these were skills a well-rounded individual should acquire.

Did I benefit at all from having my days filled with supposedly “life-enhancing” activities conducive to the proper development of a young lady? Yes and no. This rigid lifestyle that came with corporeal punishment and restriction on my personal freedoms upon non-compliance made me rebel with the utmost ferocity.

From the age of seventeen to twenty four, I decided to re-educate myself, and I did this by getting drunk, taking lots of drugs, having plenty of meaningless sex, stealing, overeating, indulging in harmful vices, staying up all night, sleeping in all day, disregarding rules, regulations and civilities and living life with enough wanton abandon to have the Infant Jesus nuns dispatching an exorcism warrant.

Today, I realize that it is a combination of regiment and chaos that makes for a good and voluptuous life. To understand the human heart and to live deeply, I needed to experience uncertainly and disorder, but to still my mind sufficiently so I could access its strengths, I needed to learn to delay gratification and sometimes deprive myself of pleasure for a period of time. In that place between regiment and chaos, between doing the things I don’t want to and doing whatever the hell I feel like, I have found the key to living exuberantly and waltzing with my very own soul.

After taking a jaunt into the village of hedonism and despair, I took the first step in rendering myself open to structure again when I decided that I liked writing enough to want to get paid to do it regularly and well. I signed up for a journalism degree at a university in London that required the submission of a 3,500 word essay every week on subjects like the Bolshevik revolution, the Dreyfuss affair, the penny press, WT Stead, the troubles of Northern Ireland and on and on. Having to read six or more textbooks and photocopies of old newspaper cuttings, digest all this new information, then come up with my own opinion on them within a short time required a heightened level of concentration and diligence.

The act of absorbing, analyzing and synthesizing new information, then expressing my point of view in a succinct manner with references, quotes and appendixes took immense single-minded focus. The complexity of the task required sitting at my desk for hours on end, ingesting volumes of tedious texts, making notes on study cards and pinning them up on a corkboard so I could develop a coherent train of thought with regards to my reaction to the historical event I was learning about. When I was done for the day, my eyes would be blurry and my breath hot from sitting down for too long, and I would feel as if I were in a daze. Sometimes, I would get anxious about speaking with my flat mates or shopkeepers because I had been silent and alone for so long. But over time, these intense bouts of learning sharpened my mind, giving it a newfound precision that allowed me to accomplish once daunting tasks – like doing the laundry or making my bed, with much greater speed and ease. Perhaps I was finally “applying myself”.

For the first time in my life, I was able to sustain these trance-like states of steady focus and my efforts paid off with a magna cum laude and an elected role as the chief editor of the school’s weekly newspaper. At the end of my three years in London, discipline gave me a bonus prize. I wrote a book, albeit an amateurish one, that got published just before I left the city and could finally call myself a writer.

I returned to Singapore and was offered a job as the editor of a monthly city guide. Here, I learned about the rigours of having to dress up, show up and interact with other human beings whether I was in the mood for it or not and whether I liked them or not. Putting on my “game face” and “talking shop” required forbearance, graciousness and effervescence – virtues that again, require a certain amount of discipline to exercise, especially for one like myself who is not gregarious by nature. After giving the magazine two years of slog, I started my own freelance writing business. This endeavor taught me how to structure and use my time wisely, how to confidently approach new prospects and how to write consistently and hopefully with increasing skill. Working for myself suits me a heck of a lot better than being on a company payroll because of the simple and selfish reason that my time is my own and what is mine is infinitely more precious than what belongs to the firm or the public. The only form of discipline that seems to work for me is self-discipline. But to learn the art of self-discipline, I had first to submit to the authority and instructions of others as I did as a young-un.

Fortunately, now, I have no interest in tabletop graffiti or peeling dried glue off my forearm. The dictionary describes the meaning of discipline as “training to act in accordance with rules,” or “activity, exercise, or a regimen that develops or improves a skill”. I once heard in a creative writing class I attended that if we want to break the rules, we need first to learn them by heart. So I am thankful that I had order and industry drilled into me in my formative years. Were that not the case, I don’t think I would have managed to survive the diabolical realms of hedonism, insanity, anarchy and art, as I have. I have discovered that I can sit still after all. For the first time in my life, my mind has the peace and calm it needs to move me towards my destiny. Today, armed with techniques in studiousness, meticulousness and asceticism, as well as an aptitude for unabashed emotional and intellectual barbarism, I am able to do life at a level that makes my soul sing. I relish life. I live, I love, I write, I feast, I jest, I rest, I bellow…and I do all these things and more exactly how I want to do them…most of the time.

Here’s a list of activities and attitudes that I have found helpful in cultivating discipline.

1) Don’t think about the next task that needs to be done. Bring your mind gently back to the task at hand. Thinking of everything else that needs to be done only creates panic, which slows you down.

2) Meditate. I usually set a stopwatch for 10 minutes while I sit in lotus position and breathe. I use mantras to help my mind stay focused. My mantra of the week is: “Be still, (inhale) my soul (exhale).”

3) Read a novel. The process of having to absorb ideas produced by another human being, to listen to voice other than your own, and to follow their train of thought from start to finish requires much more attention and determination than watching television or looking at pictures in magazines. Making sense of words, numbers and learning new tasks or languages improves brain function, so I try always to nourish my mind with useful, worthwhile or beautiful information, which will hopefully solidify into a skill set, a source of inspiration or knowledge in the bank.

4) Exercise first thing in the morning. I’ve found that doing daily physical activities like martial arts, qigong or yoga – exercises that involve remembering sequences of movement, helps whip my mind into obedience. By sticking with a morning exercise routine, I not only get more oxygen into my blood and brain, I also teach my brain to follow rhythms, spot patterns and stay on the course I’ve plotted for the day ahead.

5) Communicate with a stranger. Picking up the phone and calling an acquaintance I don’t know very well for a chat, or approaching a new business prospect on the phone or in person is something that might seem challenging. But connecting with someone new pushes me out of my social comfort zone and I learn that I can expand my presence and effectiveness in the world, one person and one project at a time. 

Copyright February 2012, Michele Koh Morollo