The interesting and worst thing about that bastard anxiety is that he has no manners.
He doesn't just terrorize you and make you feel shameful for getting lost in a 1.8-million-square-foot hospital complex. He doesn't stop there. He invades all the other parts of your self-esteem -- he swings from minor incident to major life accusation. You probably can't handle much of anything if you get lost in a hospital, he'll say. He takes aim at your general competency and then zeroes in on your capacity to love and to be loving.
For all his grandiose displays, anxiety rarely has any proof.
He is an invader who is hard to turn away from because -- for a split second -- he seems really fucking convincing. That is, until you turn inward to your heart, to your goodness, which renders all his bullshittery (at least momentarily) silent. Your heart, it turns out, is ever-waiting to pour out and bring you back to the reality of who you are -- basically good, worthy of love and sometimes a little directionally challenged. Capable, strong, giving and perceptive.
You remember all these things because they stand in the continuity of human proof. You, along with the rest of humankind before, with and after you: we are good.
Look over your shoulder and you might see the anxiety circus leader still there, but you see now he's yammering like a confused and dazed baffoon. He never knows what he's talking about, really.
What light can shine from our hearts when we know the source of our answers?
Not in a trailing, spiraling, evasive, demeaning story weaver.
But in the grasp of our invisible hands, in the stirring of heartful goodness that rests in you and me. That warmth is always waiting to bring us back home.