#98: Cowbells, fear, and an overshare.
#98: Cowbells, fear, and an overshare.
I could play it cool, but what fun would that be??
The Luminist is a reader-supported publication that illuminates the pain, the pleasure, and the paradox on the path to technicolor living. Subscribe below to receive posts about how loss teaches us to get the most out of life (along with silly gifs) in your inbox every Saturday.
Is that a freaking cowbell???
A few Sundays back I was up in Great Falls Park.
I stick to the outer edges and seldom-trod paths on weekend days, with hopes of avoiding the droves of DC-metro-area visitors descending on my paradise. Fallen leaves rustled underfoot, sparrows sang in the treetops, a woodpecker somewhere in the distance rat-a-tatted away.
And then, a din. A jangly, unexpected, this-shouldn’t-be-here din. A din that has haunted my nightmares all summer…
To be clear, there are no cows in Great Falls Park. There are no cows in Great Falls, period. There are McMansions and McLarens and moms rushing kids over the windy roads to their numerous activities. But cows? Absolutely not. Ghosts of cows? Well, maybe. Great Falls used to be the country, home to farmers, millers, horse breeders, and sometimes vacationing DCers. But that was nearly a century ago.
But my mind couldn’t convince my body to relax. My heart thudded as my neck swiveled, scanning the yellowing leaves for a hulking form.
On the pilgrimage, the cows… made an impression. They were big, curious, and surprisingly sneaky. As embarrassing as it is to admit, they scared the crap out of me a few times. Twelve weeks later, the sound of a cowbell is still making me panic.
I released my held breath slowly, feeling the adrenaline loosen it’s death grip on my nervous system… and abruptly threw my head back in laughter. Come on, Deagle! There has to be another explanation. One not related to suddenly being trampled by 50 Norwegian cows.
Sure enough, through the trees I spotted two men winding their way towards me. Kitted out in primary-color Patagonia windbreakers and company-logo baseball hats, each held a leash. Each leash was attached to a dog. Even from a distance, I could see one of the dogs sported a bulkier-than-normal collar.
Closing the twenty-yard gap, I greeted them with a smiling good morning. Confirmed: the sleek Rhodesian Ridgeback was the source of my fight-or-flight reaction. A miniature cowbell dangled from his neck.
As I looked down at said dog and said bell, the taller man spoke.
“Hi there. Can you tell us where this trail goes?” He asked.
(This is always an irrationally proud moment for me, looking so comfortable, so at ease in my beloved park that people ask me directions.)
I responded, “At the top of this hill, you’ll come to a perpendicular trail. Make a right there and you’ll do a really pretty loop alongside the stream bed of Difficult Run, then work your way back to your car.”
“Oh, we went the other direction last week. That’s great, we’ll go this way today. Thanks for your help.” I smiled like a third grader getting a pat on the head from a beloved teacher for good behavior, and paused.
The men and dogs had started to go on their way when I blurted, “I love your dog’s cowbell!”
Then, apropos of nothing, I launched into my story.
“See I was on this walk in Scandinavia and there were these cows with bells and they’re sometimes free-ranging and so damn curious, not like American cows, and you’d hear a cowbell in the freaking forest and turn the corner and there they’d be in all their giganticness coming toward you, surprisingly quickly, and I’d be worried they’d step on my foot and ruin this carefully planned walk and…”
BLAH BLAH BLAH.
They stared at me, slack jawed. Once I realized I was rambling, I reached down to pet the mini-cowbell-wearing dog, and wished them both a good hike.
Once I got out of sight, I laughed my ass off, once again.
This is what it’s like when we try to explain our fears to others.
Or even to ourselves.
We look absurd. Insane. Lacking common sense. Embarrassed.
So what do we do instead? HIDE. Hide our fears because we fear fear itself. We fear appearing afraid. We fear the assumptions people will make when they know our fears.
But when we share those fears — even in a nonsensical story on a national park trail thousands of miles from the precipitating event with two Patagonia-wearing bros — we deflate them. We drain them of power.
And transfer that power back to us.
Not all fears are laughing matters. I still struggle with the sound of sirens. When I don’t hear from a loved one for a couple days I start to panic. But the more I accept these bugaboos about myself, the more I hold them lightly and share them freely, the sooner I can recover my equilibrium after a fear flare-up.
Fear, humor, and oversharing. A weird combo at first glance, but like pop rocks and Coca-Cola, it has a dramatic effect. It shifts our focus away from the precipitating event, and back to the fear itself. How do I want to meet a cowbell? Do I want to let it rule me, shut me down, make me run and hide? Or do I want to find a reason to laugh at it, and myself? And maybe turn it into an inside joke with a thousand of my closest internet friends.
From my cowbell to yours, may we set them all free,
Now for sound: https://youtu.be/cVsQLlk-T0s?si=QUlHKzO3w-gjeB0Y
Hilarious. I think most people would have laughed at that exchange. Oh well, no good deed…