The Watering Hole

We think we’ve evolved beyond danger. Our nervous systems disagree.

It’s a bit strange, really — that we live with built-in functions in our brains meant to protect us from danger.

Sure, it’s useful to react a split second faster when something’s truly threatening — but how often does that actually happen?
How many of us can honestly say we’ve had to protect ourselves or others from real harm?

Instead, that same response gets triggered when someone raises their voice, or stirs up a memory of when your dad didn’t say you were a good boy.

It’s a bit disproportionate, isn’t it?

If we react to so much as if it were real danger — without it being earned — are we all doomed to overreact and shelter our lives?

What’s the solution to something like that?
To throw yourself into danger, stare death in the eye and say, “No thanks” — just to be able to go home and eat your granola in peace?

Maybe that’s why extreme sports athletes seem so calm in their spare time?

Or maybe we should hunt — like our ancestors — to reconnect with our primal instincts?

Or maybe we should reflect — through writing?…

Either way, we live in a world that functions more like the wild than we’d like to admit.

We’ve been tamed by a collective herd mentality, where we all act like harmless gazelles at the watering hole, and call someone else a lion if they want more water than we’re comfortable with.

Maybe that’s why so many dream of buying a farm and living off the land?
At least there ain’t no lions there.

Or maybe we need to stop lying to ourselves and accept this as an inner problem — one that needs constant tending.

Even the gazelles never stayed away from the watering hole for long — so why should we?

No matter which path you choose, don’t walk it alone.
The herd may hold you back at times — yes — but more often than not, it makes you stronger.

There’s always at least one other gazelle at the watering hole who just wants some peace and quiet — and doesn’t understand what the fuzz is all about.

We’re far too good at lying to ourselves — and to each other — pretending we don’t need anyone, pretending we could easily be a lone hunter.

It never quite works out that way, does it?

We’re all paranoid prey — and predators — in a world that requires neither.

We all know what that feels like, even if we won’t admit it.

We can talk more about it over some water.
Preferably in a glass.

If this sat with you in some way, I’d love to have you along.
I write to figure things out, mostly — about fear, connection, memory, and whatever sits just below the surface.

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