Sunday, January 23, 2011
There, within his narrative about trust, were words I'd written years ago for a story in Science and Spirit magazine. He'd mentioned, months ago, that he had found the piece, but I had no firm recollection of it, and so was surprised to sit within this echo of myself—the young me talking to the now me, saying these words:
It is so primal, this thing called trust. So basic to our survival. Without trust could we attach to one another, could we love? Could we forge societies and build institutions? Speak and believe that we’ve been heard? Would we set up housekeeping? Trade one thing for another? Lie in another person’s arms? Dare to procreate? Freely slip away to conjecture, to be curious, to dream? We’d be at war every day of our lives if we didn’t trust. We’d be anxious, jumpy people. We’d be on-guard, fenced-in solitaires — withered souls with narrowed eyes.
I don't want to live, I realized again today, without trust. I don't want the behavior of others to take it from me. I want, still, to believe in what is good, and I will, still, pursue that good, and if going forward some find me just a bit more guarded, a bit less eager to lavishly help, all it means is that I'm waiting for them to earn my trust.