How to exempt yourself from fear

How to exempt yourself from fear

Things done well and with care exempt themselves from fear. So said William Shakespeare, and I have found no sentence more fitting for these hurried days.

The world rushes. It rushes to speak, to build, to judge, to buy. We are told speed is virtue, efficiency is god. But I have walked in the woods and seen otherwise. The spider, in her slow genius, builds a web that holds morning dew like a string of pearls. She is not afraid. The tree sends roots into the dark earth for decades before lifting its arms. It does not tremble.

What is done with care holds its own weight. It needs no defense, no apology. When I build my table with hands steady and heart still, I do not fear its collapse. It will outlast me. It will hold the books I love and the bowls I fill. This is enough.

I have learned, too, that the hurried man is the anxious man. He forgets what he just said. He checks his phone to remember who he is. But the one who acts with attention, who listens while he speaks and breathes while he walks, becomes his own peace. He is not haunted.

To do something well is not to be perfect. It is to be present. When the painter mixes her colors with care, when the teacher pauses before she answers, when the child ties her shoelaces just so—something sacred enters the act. It becomes immune to mockery.

In my garden, I water the herbs slowly. I trim with scissors, not shears. The tomatoes grow. The basil leans toward the sun. If they fail, I will know I met them with care. I will not be afraid.

So I say: take your time. Build what you love. Say what you mean. Hold the hammer as if the nail were your own thumb. Then let the world judge. What you have done—if it was done well, and with care—will need no armor.

It will already be free.