I am not one to flirt with danger. While I enjoy the antics of friends who jump out of planes, and glide in a slender craft above the sea, I have no desire to join them. Probably they shake their heads at my timidity, knowing better than I do what I've missed. 

Two men were remembering the time they went zip lining, tearing along a steel cord above the tree tops. It sounded exhilarating. 

"It's an appearance of danger. But the odds of getting hurt are minimal, compared to the risk you take driving on the turnpike on a rainy day." 

I suppose it is true that I ignore the perils of those activities I engage in often, while staunchly refusing those adventures that are technically safe. 

One of the fears that holds people in its grip is public speaking. The possibility of disapproval hangs like a ball and chain on our ankles, for reasons I cannot fully explain. What is the inherent risk in someone, anyone, declaring that they don't like what we have said?

I have practice with this. This week I have volleyed with someone who makes comments on the channel I help moderate. He knows nothing about me, yet hurls accusations in my direction like cannonballs. Mostly, he is angry at the idea of a god who would commit genocide, which I can sympathize with. But not knowing that fictional deity's email address, he lobs them in my direction. 

I am holding it as a spiritual practice. Trying to calm my spirit in the presence of blame from someone I will never meet is a handy rehearsal for when I am looking into a real face. My hope is that I will zip away from those circumstances in which I could hurt someone I love. That danger is much more sinister.