The Ceremony of the Pencils

My heart is pounding so hard, I fear if I look under my shirt, I will see its rounded form trying to break free from my chest.

 My hands are icy. Not the cold of going out on a winter day without gloves. It’s ice from the inside spreading out.

I am quiet and still. I feel that if I move, I will break into a million shards of glass.

This is what a panic attack is like for me. Along with its partner, a generalized, low-level sense of doom, it has stalked me my entire life. I literally don’t remember a time, even way back in my childhood, when I did not have anxiety. But at fifty-seven, I have a much better handle on it than when I was thirteen. Many, many hours of therapy, medication, and lots of mental health “homework” has made this condition truly manageable for me. Thank goodness!!!

 That does not mean it has completely gone away. On very rare occasions, I do have a full-on panic attack. And a bit more frequently anxiety and dread still shadow my day.

 In her amazing book Atlas of the Heart, research professor and lecturer, Brene Brown has a whole chapter on what happens when things are uncertain. She writes, “An intolerance for uncertainty is an important contributing factor to all types of anxiety. Those of us who are generally uncomfortable with uncertainty are more likely to experience anxiety…” Well that fits me to a T. Because, without a doubt, if I don’t know how an event is going to roll out, (and we never actually do) I will imagine that it will happen in the worst way possible. My imagination automatically runs to “I’m fired. The house is burned down. Or EVERYONE’S DEAD.”

 And once something like that gets a hold of me, it is difficult for me to extricate myself. I once had to have oral surgery. The days leading up to it were a nightmare. I saw in my mind all the instruments the surgeon was going to use on me and the relentless pain. On the day, I sat myself in to the dental chair with my classic pounding hear, cold hands, and paralyzed demeanor. Honestly, I remembered the dentist saying he was going to begin, and don’t really recall the procedure itself because I was so internally panicked. Yes, it hurt, but suddenly it was over. 72 hours of self-torture for maybe 45 minutes of discomfort.

 About six months ago I had another one of those days come up for me. I usually don’t suffer from social anxiety, but I knew I was going to be in a complicated emotional situation. As the event approached, the dread continued to build up in me. I could feel it filling me up. I could feel it sloshing around in my throat. According to Brene Brown, anxiety and dread are the precursors, the things that happen before the actual thing you’re worrying about. Yup, it is always the pre-game that kills me. Usually once I am actually inside the source of my fear, I handle it much better.

 I decided I was not going to just hand myself over to this without a fight. And I turned to ritual and ceremony to create a weapon. I knew I had to go through this experience, like I had to have the dental surgery. I knew I had some legitimate concerns about the encounter. I just wanted my best self to be the one walking into it.

 I pulled out two tools to create this ceremony of bravery: a glass full of pencils. And one of my favorite books, Dune.

 I read Dune as a newly minted adult, in the mid 80’s. I am a giant Sci-Fi nerd, so I started reading it because of the spaceships, alien planets, and giant worms. But I also love language, the words in this book are lyrical and resonant. And one passage in particular stopped me in my tracks.

 In the story the young hero Paul Attreides is being tested for bravery and self-control. He must put his hand into a box that will cause devastating pain, and not remove it. As the burning - which is only simulated - gets worse and worse, Paul is afraid that he will pull out his hand and fail the test. He begins to recite words - a poem, a prayer - that has been come to be known as The Litany Against Fear.

“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.”
- Frank Herbert, Dune

These sixty-one words had a profound effect on me. At that point in my life, I was having panic attacks several times a week and living in a constant state of dread. Yet I never told anyone. I thought it was something to be ashamed of or something no one would understand. I couldn’t understand it myself except that it made me feel very weak and cowardly.

Now here was Frank Herbert who had created a strong character who also felt terror. Paul did pass the test and went on to become a powerful leader. This book showed me you could both be scared and take bold action. And it was all encapsulated in the Litany, which urged me to face my fear and let it pass through me. The fear was not to be ignored or suppressed. But it wasn’t to be given free reign either. It was to be processed. The litany assured me that when I was done digesting the fear, I would still remain.

 At first, I carried the book around and turn to that page when I was scared. Once I memorized it, I recited it. A LOT. It helped slow my heart rate and loosen up my frozen muscles. It didn’t do everything. That’s where the therapy, medication, and internal work came in. BUT it helped.

 And the Litany is kind of a cultural phenomenon. I have found other blog posts about it. Late night host Stephen Colbert and writer Michael Chabon are fans. There is even a profanity laden version by the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. (Not linking, you can google it.)

 So that explains the Dune part. But what about the cup of pencils? Was I going to write something in this ceremony? No.

 The pencils represent a moment in my life when I was brave and proud of myself. I did not learn to swim as a child. You could not get me into water above my head. But as an adult I wanted to change that, so I private lessons at our local Y. My teacher Judy was great. She really helped me overcome a lot of my apprehension of the water. But at my last lesson, she did encourage me to jump into the deep end. I told her I could not use the diving board or go headfirst. “That’s OK,” she said. “You could do a pencil dive.” That means you keep your body as straight as a pencil and jump in feet first, arms at your sides and toes pointed.

 Judy knew how afraid I was and was prepared to do a lot of coaxing. But I admired her so much that I really wanted to impress her. So, I just stepped to the edge and pencil dived. There was maybe a second or two of that turquoise silence and tickling bubbles. Then I was breaking back through the surface. Judy looked a little shocked, “I didn’t think you were going to do that.”

 Neither did I. But I did it and survived. I won’t say I enjoyed it and after that became addicted to the pool. I still suck at swimming. But pencil diving that night into the deep end is etched deeply into my psyche as proof that I could take the reins with fear.  I absolutely loved that I was able to face my fear and jump. I did indeed turn my inner eye to see the path where fear had gone, and only I remained.

 So, these were the two ingredients I used for my bravery ceremony. I got everything ready the night before. Printed up a copy of the Litany and sharpened a new box of ten pencils.

 The morning of my difficult meeting, I sat alone in my living room the paper, pencils, and a glass of water before me. I took some deep breaths and began to meditate on the memory. I tried to conjure up all the details of that last swim lesson. The feel of the rough wet tile beneath my feet. The sound of the other swimmers’ strokes and children’s splashing that echoed through the large space. The smell of chlorine. I made myself feel the fear before jumping in and then the triumph of surfacing. Judy’s stunned yet pleased expression.

 When I felt those proud emotions overcome the fear sloshing around in my throat, I opened my eyes and began to read the Litany Against Fear. And every few words I took a pencil and dropped it into the glass of water, calling forth my plunge into the deep end.

 Then the reading was done. The pencils were all in the glass. I started my day.

The emotionally complicated meeting happened. I did not feel great about it before or after. But I did feel that I brought my best, pencil-diving self to it. And that’s what The Ceremony of the Pencils is all about. I have performed the ceremony another time since then and it again brought me comfort.

 I have also helped others design their own bravery ceremonies. I always state two things.

 One, a ritual or ceremony can be very valuable, but it can never replace mental health therapy. If you need a therapist, that is what you should pursue. I did and it changed my life. Two, a good ceremony must focus on exploring and supporting your own, actual bravery and NOT on the person or situation you are dreading.

 And do not … well, um … fear, if your fear does not vanish after the ritual. The ceremony is there to help you summon up your courage and send you forth as your best self. To quote Emma Donoghue from her novel Room, “Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing.”

Remember to create, celebrate, and gather.

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