Many years ago, when I lived in Albany, New York, I was in the habit of jogging downtown. After about two or three miles, I would come to the renovated old house where my good friend Robert worked. I would sit on a bench in front of the beautiful house and wait for him to come out and have lunch with me. Then I would jog home. One sunny summer day, I was resting on my bench as usual when a bee flew in and circled around me. I'm going to pause here and give you some background. I grew up in the suburbs of Long Island, New York, while my parents grew up in the sprawling urban borough of Brooklyn, New York, with very little exposure to nature. My mother was one of those people who, if she saw a bug, had to hunt it down and kill it, or she couldn't stay in the house. Somehow, every time there's something about nature in your home, it's always flattering. Sitting on the bench that day, with bees hovering around my arms, I realized that I had inherited my mother's fear of nature. I was running out of breath and sweating, but feeling energetic, when the bees showed up. My first impulse was to swat it or drive it away as I had seen it as a child, but somehow, maybe because I was tired, maybe because the sun was shining, for the first time in my life, I thought, Why? Why would I get violent with a bee that never wanted to hurt me? Suddenly, I was beyond my genetic predisposition. I decided to give myself an experiment. I put my arm up on the bench and let the bees fly around me. I stared at the bee and thought, Okay, let me see what you're going to do. As the bees approached, I felt my own adrenaline rush, but tried to calm myself.

The bee landed on my arm, and once again I was gripped by fear. Well, that was the end of the experiment. But I didn't move my body. I was so much bigger than the bee. Now that I have the bee closer, I can look at it more closely. I saw that its sting was not sticking out. I let it fly closer, but it still did not threaten me. I knew I could move at any time. The choice was mine. I could get up, walk around, or chase the bees away. As I continued my experiment, the bee finally rose from my arm and flew away. The experiment left a deep impression on my mind, and the little bee brought me a revelation. I realized that each of us carries around a "safety circle," meaning that we know that if an unexpected threat or violence intrudes into our circle, we should be motivated by the danger and act out of a need for self-protection. But we also all have a "circle of terror," which is often larger and farther out into the world than our reasonable "circle of safety," and extends far beyond what is necessary. In other words, we often mistake the "circle of fear" for the "circle of safety" and unnecessarily shut out the outside world. Whenever something out there approaches the circle of terror, our first reaction is often "disaster is imminent," but that's often not the case. When the bees showed up, my inherited circle of terror told me: Sound the alarm! I must take steps to protect myself, even if I have to use force! The truth is, this situation is nowhere near my "safe zone." This can also be our daily spiritual challenge: How can we make our circle of fear and our circle of safety more overlapping? When I expand my circle of fear, I close myself off from the world, and life slips away from me. The revelation that this little bee brought to me was very profound. When we become wary and fearful of something or someone, we close ourselves off from life and end up feeling lonely. And when we lose our connection to life, we tend to quickly become discouraged, discouraged, and feel more insecure. As a result, our fear increases, which in turn widens our "fear circle," which makes it harder for us to connect with life and others, and which leads to more isolation, small and lonely feelings. We continue to expand our "circle of fear" until we feel threatened and insecure everywhere and end up shivering in this psychological cycle. All this suggests that each of us needs to make an effort to align our "fear zone" with our "safety zone." When we find that they are spaced out on a particular day, we need to put them back together again, which is the process by which we adjust our actions according to our feelings. For me, I see the overlap of these two circles as a measure of how good I am. When my fears grow unnecessarily, I begin to withdraw from life. This perception tells me that my insecurities are starting to heat up and that I am starting to lose my core. Once I let my fear hold me back, I began to close in on the most precious experience of my life. I could not wait patiently for the dark clouds inside and out to lift, nor could I step forward and plunge into the sweet or painful experience of life. When my "circle of terror" spread too far, like a ripple of water, I knew that I was no longer in a state of awakening. When I finally realized that I didn't have to shut myself off so much, I was faced with the task of putting down my "terror circle" -- pushing open the locked doors and Windows, opening up my heavy heart, letting go of my rational mind, and letting life close to me. When I was able to bring the circle of fear back to its proper size, I was able to grasp the scale of fear again.

Many years ago, when I lived in Albany, New York, I was in the habit of jogging downtown. After about two or three miles, I would come to the renovated old house where my good friend Robert worked. I would sit on a bench in front of the beautiful house and wait for him to come out and have lunch with me. Then I would jog home. One sunny summer day, I was resting on my bench as usual when a bee flew in and circled around me. I'm going to pause here and give you some background. I grew up in the suburbs of Long Island, New York, while my parents grew up in the sprawling urban borough of Brooklyn, New York, with very little exposure to nature. My mother was one of those people who, if she saw a bug, had to hunt it down and kill it, or she couldn't stay in the house. Somehow, every time there's something about nature in your home, it's always flattering. Sitting on the bench that day, with bees hovering around my arms, I realized that I had inherited my mother's fear of nature. I was running out of breath and sweating, but feeling energetic, when the bees showed up. My first impulse was to swat it or drive it away as I had seen it as a child, but somehow, maybe because I was tired, maybe because the sun was shining, for the first time in my life, I thought, Why? Why would I get violent with a bee that never wanted to hurt me? Suddenly, I was beyond my genetic predisposition. I decided to give myself an experiment. I put my arm up on the bench and let the bees fly around me. I stared at the bee and thought, Okay, let me see what you're going to do. As the bees approached, I felt my own adrenaline rush, but tried to calm myself.

The bee landed on my arm, and once again I was gripped by fear. Well, that was the end of the experiment. But I didn't move my body. I was so much bigger than the bee. Now that I have the bee closer, I can look at it more closely. I saw that its sting was not sticking out. I let it fly closer, but it still did not threaten me. I knew I could move at any time. The choice was mine. I could get up, walk around, or chase the bees away. As I continued my experiment, the bee finally rose from my arm and flew away. The experiment left a deep impression on my mind, and the little bee brought me a revelation. I realized that each of us carries around a "safety circle," meaning that we know that if an unexpected threat or violence intrudes into our circle, we should be motivated by the danger and act out of a need for self-protection. But we also all have a "circle of terror," which is often larger and farther out into the world than our reasonable "circle of safety," and extends far beyond what is necessary. In other words, we often mistake the "circle of fear" for the "circle of safety" and unnecessarily shut out the outside world. Whenever something out there approaches the circle of terror, our first reaction is often "disaster is imminent," but that's often not the case. When the bees showed up, my inherited circle of terror told me: Sound the alarm! I must take steps to protect myself, even if I have to use force! The truth is, this situation is nowhere near my "safe zone." This can also be our daily spiritual challenge: How can we make our circle of fear and our circle of safety more overlapping? When I expand my circle of fear, I close myself off from the world, and life slips away from me. The revelation that this little bee brought to me was very profound. When we become wary and fearful of something or someone, we close ourselves off from life and end up feeling lonely. And when we lose our connection to life, we tend to quickly become discouraged, discouraged, and feel more insecure. As a result, our fear increases, which in turn widens our "fear circle," which makes it harder for us to connect with life and others, and which leads to more isolation, small and lonely feelings. We continue to expand our "circle of fear" until we feel threatened and insecure everywhere and end up shivering in this psychological cycle. All this suggests that each of us needs to make an effort to align our "fear zone" with our "safety zone." When we find that they are spaced out on a particular day, we need to put them back together again, which is the process by which we adjust our actions according to our feelings. For me, I see the overlap of these two circles as a measure of how good I am. When my fears grow unnecessarily, I begin to withdraw from life. This perception tells me that my insecurities are starting to heat up and that I am starting to lose my core. Once I let my fear hold me back, I began to close in on the most precious experience of my life. I could not wait patiently for the dark clouds inside and out to lift, nor could I step forward and plunge into the sweet or painful experience of life. When my "circle of terror" spread too far, like a ripple of water, I knew that I was no longer in a state of awakening. When I finally realized that I didn't have to shut myself off so much, I was faced with the task of putting down my "terror circle" -- pushing open the locked doors and Windows, opening up my heavy heart, letting go of my rational mind, and letting life close to me. When I was able to bring the circle of fear back to its proper size, I was able to grasp the scale of fear again.