The first thing you
should know is that I used
to suffer from a snake phobia.
The operative word there
is phobia. It wasn’t just a
matter of disliking snakes.
It wasn’t a fear of being bitten.
It wasn’t a simple reluctance
to touch their impossibly
dry, nimble
bodies.
I was phobic. It was a
fear completely devoid of
reason or logic.
The technical term for it
is ophidiophobia. The lay
term for it is buuuuuhhhhuuuuuuugh.
Or maybe it’s
aaaiiiiiieeeeeeeekkkk!!!!!!
There are different levels of
severity.
I avoided outdoor experiences
because of the possibility
that I might see a
snake. Just see one.
When the family went to
zoos, I stayed outside while
they toured the reptile exhibits.
Once, while riding in a
car down the long strip of
highway that runs the
length of Pensacola Beach
in Florida, we saw a rattle
snake making its way
across the sweltering asphalt.
I screamed.
Let me repeat that: I
was inside a car traveling
some 55 miles per hour,
and when I saw a snake on
the street, I screamed and
curled into a fetal position.
Thank goodness I wasn’t
behind the wheel.
So, a few weeks ago
when I wrote about Serpentina,
the snake who hangs
out in the garden along our
front path, it wasn’t just a
reflection on my relationship
to my surroundings. It
was a reflection on my relationship
to my internal
landscape as well.
I no longer have a snake
phobia, and that’s just one
of about half a dozen irrational
fears that no longer
take precious time out of
my days.
Flying in airplanes, needles,
surgery, hospitals,
driving on rainy roads,
driving on snowy roads,
driving on roads that may
become rainy or snowy...
Gone.
How my fears left me is
complicated and boring. I
survived cancer. I became
intimate with a number of
my phobias, and they became
ordinary, everyday
elements of my life.
I do not recommend that
route to phobia mitigation.
There are easier ways.
Suffice to say that I once
had a snake phobia, and
now I do not. Until one recent
morning.
Our little dog Murphy,
who is not yet a year old
and not yet predictable in
his behavior, had nevertheless
gotten into the habit of
walking alongside his people
out to the dogs’ fenced
area. Unfortunately, he figured
out that the horrible
piglike smell that was coming
from across the meadow
was indeed produced by our
two pigs. For days, any time
someone opened the front
door, Murphy bolted out
and headed around the
back of the house, away
from his fence, toward the
pigs. I can understand his
fascination. They’re very
smelly and big — each one
about 10 times his size.
Of course, these jaunts
never happened at convenient
times. Somehow, he
always decided to visit his
pig friends when I was running
late for a meeting or
trying to get the girls to
school.
That’s exactly what happened
on the morning in
question. Posey was already
in the car, waiting to
be driven to school. I had
run up to the house to get
one last thing, and as I was
closing the door behind me,
Murphy bolted — a streak
of red and white fluff
around the back of the
house.
I darted after him, but
was halted in my tracks by
not one, but two snakes.
One slithered through the
grass to the left and into
the Queen Anne’s lace. The
other headed to the right
and the embankment covered
in myrtle. It stopped,
and looked at me, presumably
to determine whether
I was holding a hoe.
That’s when I realized
that, surrounding the snake
on the hill just a few feet
from me and my bare, besandaled
toes, were five
others. Six snakes — seven
if you count the one over in
the Queen Anne’s lace.
Seven snakes. I could
feel 14 little eyes on me. All
of us still and silent. Waiting.
Seven snakes.
It seems like you should
have to be on a vision quest,
or fall asleep with Jim Morrison
playing on the stereo
to see something like that.
I was the one who backed
down first. I turned,
walked back to my porch
and called for Murphy with
promises of cookies. He returned
and the day went
on as planned.
For weeks, though, I
was unable to take that
route to the backyard. I
started going the long way
around. I got jumpy walking
up my front path, and
quickened my steps because
I knew they were
there. I knew they were
looking at me.
I researched ways to get
rid of snakes, and learned
that direct, hand-to-snake
combat is the only surefire
method.
I began to wonder
whether a mongoose can
make a decent pet.
Fears are powerful like
that. They enter through
the keyhole of a bad experience
or two, then multiply
exponentially. They
change the pattern of living
around them. They’re
bossy and sneaky and
shrill.
They’re worse than
snakes, and much, much
more vicious.
And even when you
think you’ve gotten rid of
them, they can make another
appearance and start
to build nests in the corners
of your life.
It pays to exterminate
them.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
has a hoe and she’s
not afraid to use it. You
can connect with her at
www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com.
