With the wind and cold, a restlessness has come, and I find myself hoarding my last chocolate for the journey back across the mountains - forever getting-ready-for-life instead of living it each day.

This passage, from The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen, reverberates within me.

I find myself writing not what I want to write, not what flows through me naturally in conversation with a good friend or colleague. I write what I think I should write, I let the accumulated weight of tradition inhibit me.

And when I do write, I steel myself - as it's necessary to do - by promising myself that I am preparing myself for future writings.

I agree with the author of The Four Agreements, that I live in a dream world, a world in which I limit myself by my beliefs.

I wonder if this why I also struggle to communicate freely with some people, and not others. I believe there's an image I have to create and maintain of myself, a mirage to impress others. As I have learned, others will see me through their own distorted vision, as I see them through mine.

I am attracted to the Buddhism that teaches: when you see, you see; when you hear, you hear; when you taste, you taste; when you feel, you feel; when you smell, you smell. I don't understand how straightforward teaching can lead to splintering.

I struggle with such basic undertakings. It is shameful, really. But I am coming to terms with shame and guilt and fear: they are indicators, they are guides, but they are not the truth, they are not me. My truth is that I am here and now, writing my truth.

Fear turns me inside out, so that instead of focusing on myself, I am focusing on the outside world. Someone recently related it to control, which I related to obsessive worry. I spent two weeks obsessively worrying about a parking spot. I sought reassurance from multiple sources, and it could not still my - mind? body? from where does the fear arise?

I do have a theory about this. I relate it to insecurity. A fundamental insecurity. At the innermost core of my identity, of me, lies something fractured. I picture it as a black sphere held up by pillars and scaffolding and various impromptu support structures. A secure person has a secure foundation. An insecure person has an insecure foundation: pillars are broken or missing, and replacing them may be toxic and unhealthy supports, like drugs, maladaptations (e.g. codependency, numbness).

The pillars that support a person's fundamental security change throughout time, but early scars, especially early childhood scars, may linger unnoticed for decades.

Tying it back together, I believe it's this insecurity that hinders me from mindfulness. I am forever getting-ready-for-life in order to steel myself, to build up enough support, that I believe I need in order to survive.

I also believe, or am coming to believe, that I can support myself, that the pillars of support are meant to fade away, not to be replaced.