No More Fear

by Fionn Zarubica

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads, and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers come to dust…

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
Cymbeline, Act IV, Scene 2

How can we best go about shutting down creative solutions to a life well lived?  How can we remain stuck where we don’t want to be?  How can we attain mortality without accomplishing what we came here to do? How can we plan our own suicide, assuring that our life and our death will be exquisitely painful and the result of flawed perceptions and faulty yearnings?

Not hard. 

Live in a state of fear, fear that clings long past the injury that engendered it.

Reject a true perspective of life.  Turn away from the peace and splendor that is our birthright.  Don’t see ourselves as perfect and beloved – implicitly beloved, without judgment, and blessed with infinite possibility.

Keep past injuries alive in our minds.  Play to the negative tape – put it on repeat.

Cling to our inner victim.

Fiercely defend reality.

Concern ourselves with the opinions of others.  Cede our divinity to tyrants and believe it when we are called powerless.

Commit ourselves to forgetting that we all enter this place, wherever we enter, in the same manner and are endowed with the same capacities and support.  Appearances of greatness are just that.  In the end we leave in the same manner.  No special privileges.

Convince ourselves that the Universal Consciousness has a caste system.

Believe our negative hallucinations and let them drive us mad.  Refuse the ever-present guidance that lovingly stands by awaiting our prayers.  Destroy our neighbors – our dear dear ones.  Mourn our possessions.  Take joy from our children by pressing them to be other than the perfections they already are.  Bite ourselves until we bleed, fester and die.

Cringe before the scepter.

Agonize over how we will be clothed and fed, without considering the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: forgetting that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.*

Endow another with spiritual superiority.

Intellectualize until we crumble from its brittleness.

Cling to joy and sadness as equally consequential.

Care what happens.

Embrace false humility by repudiating that we are omnipotent and creative expressions of the Divine with the power of I Am to disarm any aggressor.

Feel guilty about how and to whom we express our love.

Pretend ignorance to the fact that the war between good and evil has already been fought and won – won by good.

Fear slander and censor.

Close our eyes to the truth that we, and those we fear, will all come to dust and that only the love we have brought through us, from the Source, will mark our lives and linger on.  

No exorcizer harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!**

My prayer: May we all, golden lads and girls, have a quiet consummation and a renowned grave from a life that we, through consciousness, have lived free from fear, self-suppression and illusion.   May we have lived and loved to the utmost.

Love is all that matters!

 *The Bible. Matthew 6:28-29, King James Version
  **William Shakespeare. 1564-1616, Cymbeline, Act IV, Scene 2

Read Complete Text >

Listen Online >
Gerald Finzi (1901-56).  Op.18 no. 3. Thomas Allan, Baritone.  Malcome Martineau, Piano.

Arnold Böcklin (1827–1901)
Die Toteninsel (Island of the Dead)
Date: 1883
Medium: Oil on panel
Dimensions: 80 x 150 cm
Current location: Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin

Leave a Comment