Bear Hugs Aren’t Always a Good Thing
Well I didn’t decide to go to Africa, and I certainly didn’t pack up the Camry and leave town under the cover of darkness. No, I was devoted to farming and still dedicated to staying on the farm through mid-October. But the winter would be different than originally planned.
Even now, as I write this, I hesitate to divulge the plans that have solidified over time in my head. They feel comfortable stowed away up there in the dark recesses of my cortex. Once these plans are verbalized, I’ll be held to them. Doubt and fear that I won’t be able to follow through take hold of me and I’m left sputtering in ambiguous terms.
Commitment: when confronted by it my lungs start devouring themselves in ursine portions, the panic squeezing blood from my heart in a loveless bear hug.
Fear of commitment, a concept I’ve become overly familiar with. Anyone feel me on this? Can I get an “amen,” folks?