Trust/Doubt

“Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason."--Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love Emerson.  I love his transcendental point of view, his affirmational writing style in Self-Reliance, his awe of nature, his conviction that there was a better way for society to progress and that we, as members of it, were the key to that success.  Not just our elected officials or representatives, but we ourselves were the voices and vehicles by which change must occur.


But this quotation, this concept of trust, is rankling me tonight.  I am a woman of faith, more active now in that regard than I have been since my childhood, and I am a woman of forgiveness, believing that in order to move forward, to progress, I have to forgive the transgressions of those who have hurt me if only so that I can be set free from the pain of their prior acts.  And yet, despite my faithfulness and forgiveness, I am grappling with my own ability to forget the things that have happened in the past and so trust is taking a back seat to Doubt which, it turns out, is a pretty loud and ominous passenger.  


Doubt climbs into the car with all of its bags haphazardly packed and won't let you throw them in the trunk or in the backseat.  Doubt carries all its baggage in its lap, right out in the open.  Doubt's bags make it hard to see out the side mirror, to maneuver the air vents, to change the cd or radio station.  
Doubt takes up so much space; don't even think about using the cupholder.  


Doubt does not want to talk to you.  Or, more accurately, Doubt doesn't want you to talk.  Doubt sucks up all the air in the car and sets loose on a long and winding story that never seems to end, circling back again and again to that point in time that led you to invite Doubt in in the first place, a time so dark you don't remember what day it was, what the weather was like or whether or not you remembered to eat.  
Doubt has no interest in current affairs, future plans, or the good news of the day; Doubt wants to rehash the past, to scratch and claw at those old wounds until the scars left behind are jagged, weeping welts of pain, oozing and open to the elements, unable to heal without immediate and expert attention that you, driver, cannot see to just now.


I want to kick Doubt the hell out of the car.  I want to go back to the rest area where I fist met Doubt and avert my eyes when Doubt looks my way.  I want Doubt to sit in the rain, cold and lonely, waiting for some other poor sucker to come along and pick Doubt up.  I want to, but I am having the damnedest time making it happen and that may be because Doubt is one rational son-of-a-bitch.  All of Doubts arguments make sense.  Doubt says, "this happened before, it could--and probably will given your luck--happen again, so don't get your hopes up."  Doubt is a master of empirical and anecdotal evidence.  That's what makes Doubt so popular at conventions.  


But, I am sick of Doubt.  I am sick of the way Doubt smells--sour like laundry you forgot in the washing machine overnight--and I am sick of Doubt's heavy breathing when Doubt sleeps.  Mostly, though, I am sick of being unable to hear myself think as Doubt huffs and puffs and sighs through our journey together, so I think it's time to pull over, open the door, and run for my life, trusting I'll find a path worth taking before too long.


I never liked that car anyway, and besides, I feel like walking.