"The Litany"

 

"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

          When in my twenties, I carried this litany from Dune in my wallet. Faced with living alone for the first time in a new place while attending college, my personal anxieties dogged me. On bad days while riding the shuttle to early morning classes, I would whisper these words. When I worried that I wasn’t as smart as everyone else thought, this recitation calmed my soul.

          When in my thirties, I carried this litany (now worn and faded) as solace whenever I felt I failed as a wife, mother, daughter or sister. The dread of not measuring up to the expectations of my principals or peers wrapped me into doubts that eased if I chanted this invocation. 

          When in my forties, my father died. The world tilted. I faced one of my worst fears and survived. Somehow, carrying the little scrap of paper seem unnecessary. The words, permanently etched in memory, offered comfort and soothed my grief. 

          When in my fifties, my life narrowed down into the nightmares of my mother’s Huntington’s disease. Every day filled with uncertainties as I dealt with the horrific symptoms of this disorder. To be honest, I hid from many of my fears. I wasted energy running away from them. I forgot the power of permitting them “to pass over me and through me.” 

          Now I begin my sixties. And I need to carry these assurances with me once again. I’m printing them out on a crisply new piece of paper and folding them into my wallet. Although committed to memory forty years ago, I need them to be concretely within my grasp. I face a different challenge today as a madman dictates our political reality. I must not let his mental illness paralyze my ability to reason and resist.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Litany"

"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

          When in my twenties, I carried this litany from Dune in my wallet. Faced with living alone for the first time in a new place while attending college, my personal anxieties dogged me. On bad days while riding the shuttle to early morning classes, I would whisper these words. When I worried that I wasn’t as smart as everyone else thought, this recitation calmed my soul.

          When in my thirties, I carried this litany (now worn and faded) as solace whenever I felt I failed as a wife, mother, daughter or sister. The dread of not measuring up to the expectations of my principals or peers wrapped me into doubts that eased if I chanted this invocation. 

          When in my forties, my father died. The world tilted. I faced one of my worst fears and survived. Somehow, carrying the little scrap of paper seem unnecessary. The words, permanently etched in memory, offered comfort and soothed my grief. 

          When in my fifties, my life narrowed down into the nightmares of my mother’s Huntington’s disease. Every day filled with uncertainties as I dealt with the horrific symptoms of this disorder. To be honest, I hid from many of my fears. I wasted energy running away from them. I forgot the power of permitting them “to pass over me and through me.” 

          Now I begin my sixties. And I need to carry these assurances with me once again. I’m printing them out on a crisply new piece of paper and folding them into my wallet. Although committed to memory forty years ago, I need them to be concretely within my grasp. I face a different challenge today as a madman dictates our political reality. I must not let his mental illness paralyze my ability to reason and resist.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Fear is the Mind-killer”

"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

          When in my twenties, I carried this litany from Dune in my wallet. Faced with living alone for the first time in a new place while attending college, my personal anxieties dogged me. On bad days while riding the shuttle to early morning classes, I would whisper these words. When I worried that I wasn’t as smart as everyone else thought, this recitation calmed my soul.

          When in my thirties, I carried this litany (now worn and faded) as solace whenever I felt I failed as a wife, mother, daughter or sister. The dread of not measuring up to the expectations of my principals or peers wrapped me into doubts that eased if I chanted this invocation. 

          When in my forties, my father died. The world tilted. I faced one of my worst fears and survived. Somehow, carrying the little scrap of paper seem unnecessary. The words, permanently etched in memory, offered comfort and soothed my grief. 

          When in my fifties, my life narrowed down into the nightmares of my mother’s Huntington’s disease. Every day filled with uncertainties as I dealt with the horrific symptoms of this disorder. To be honest, I hid from many of my fears. I wasted energy running away from them. I forgot the power of permitting them “to pass over me and through me.” 

          Now I begin my sixties. And I need to carry these assurances with me once again. I’m printing them out on a crisply new piece of paper and folding them into my wallet. Although committed to memory forty years ago, I need them to be concretely within my grasp. I face a different challenge today as a madman dictates our political reality. I must not let his mental illness paralyze my ability to reason and resist.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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“Lizard Brain”

A clear objective—survival       
Tuck head down and traipse through desert sands—       

            An Arrakis boiling with religious certitudes,     

                      ancient political nuances   

Multitudinous paths leading to destruction       
Ignore the razor winds that slice through reason   
And only hone instinct   

Survive   
Clutch the knife of insanity in your righteous fist   
Rip into the enemy’s flesh   
Retaliate—an eye for an eye—until all are blind   
Blades become bombs   
Homes reduce to rubble housing mutilated families   

Logic stumbles through the wreckage   
And gets lost in the stench of decay   
Becomes overburdened and overrun by molecular rage—   

            (Passed down from evangelist to fanatic     

                       to zealot to extremist)   

Until it dries up and dies   

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

 

"Choices"



Randolph Macon College

            In Dune, the alternate pathways of life choices lead to infinite possible futures. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve appreciated the impact making certain decisions have had upon my life. I realize the ripple down effect and sometimes wonder “What if . . .?”

            My junior year in high school, Randolph Macon Women’s College sent a representative to San Antonio to talk to me. My parents, impressed that a college in Virginia showed so much interest in me, became determined to find a way to let me attend this extremely small, private institution. The scholarship package the school offered, along with grants and loans, covered everything but my transportation to and from the campus. Since the campus at that time closed down for Christmas break and Spring break, my parents would need to provide airfare several times a year. Or they would have to purchase a better car for me to make the drive from Texas to Virginia—alone. Either way, the finances didn’t add up since my father made less than $20,000 a year at that time. And so I made the choice to turn down this offer.

            I logged this decision into the back of my mind, and only recently wondered about the life I would have led if I’d gone to that college. Instead of attending a huge university, I would have been one of 1,000 students. Who would I have met? Would I have continued with my plan to study for and receive a Masters and PhD in Psychology? Of course, I’ll never know.




Trinity University
 

            By the end of my junior year in high school, I’d narrowed down my college choices to either Trinity University here in San Antonio or Texas A & M University in College Station. Although Trinity cost a small fortune, the financial aid package I’d receive along with my ability to live at home translated into an amount almost equal to A & M’s offer along with the expenses of living in an apartment. I remember feeling torn about which university to attend, and on a whim determined to let “Fate” decide for me. I told my parents the first school to send acceptance papers would settle my decision.

            I don’t remember why my father picked me up one night at work, but I do recall his excitement when he told me I had letters in the mail. He wouldn’t, however, let me know which school had responded. I clung to him as he zipped his motorcycle down Loop 410, wondering what future I would allow serendipity to choose for me.

            Then I stood at the dining room table and looked at two official envelopes! Yes. My resolution to let “Fate” intervene in my life was foiled. Both Trinity University and Texas A & M accepted me, and I received the news on the same day.  I resorted to Pro and Con lists for both institutions. I talked to my teachers and my friends. I already spent quite a bit of time with friends attending Trinity, and they invited me to evenings at Bombay Bicycle Club to meet more students and several professors.

            Just when I’d made my decision to attend Trinity, my father came home with the news that his job was transferring him to Houston, ruining my plan to live at home while I attended the more expensive Trinity.

            Not many people know that Texas A & M had moved to my second choice. My father spent a weekend hunting down an apartment for me, and I lined up a roommate (who kept putting off signing the lease and then  canceled just two weeks before school started). I ended up moving to College Station, living alone for the first semester, and stepping onto a different path with spectacular choices.
 

                                             Texas A & M University


 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman