The first time I ran away I was four years old.

The last time I ran away was an hour ago.  But fortunately, not so long ago, on a Thursday afternoon, I recognized my flight patterns.

We were talking in our writers’ group about two readings that day; one woman had read her essay about how we lose our innocence at four years old, and the struggle to find it again later in life.  Another read a poem about emotional pain from long ago still distracting; like a broken tooth, still tender.

The twined discussion threads of lost innocence and long-remembered pain caused me to recall running away at four, and I stood up abruptly and walked to the hot water and tea, although I did not want either.  I stopped, aware that I was running away again.  I stopped to think about fleeing.

We’re all equipped with a fight or flight reflex, genetically designed to sharpen the critical body functions required to escape, or vanquish a predator.  Our hypothalamus elevates to red alert, muscles flood with cortisol and adrenaline, heart rate increases while our rational mind disengages; visual acuity heightens and, if we are not immediately plunged into a fight, we scan the horizon for enemies and get ready to run away.

We run in our primordial dreams, too: never fast enough, we still feel the breeze brush before a monster grabs our foot, running up the basement stairs.  We try to fly.  When I was young, I used flight to get away: from monsters in my dreams - trouble, stress, situations out of my control in my day life.  I flew from jobs, home, people, developed flight controls that responded instantaneously to the first flush of fear.

Genuinely life-threatening fights seldom happen as we make our way through the modern week.  It isn’t necessary to be ever vigilant for invasion from adversaries into our territories, but we still produce the fight:flight reflex.

The problem with fight or flight reflex is we have nowhere to run.  The adrenaline launch platforms of traffic snarls, performance reviews, discord with a partner remain.  We could perhaps discard the partner, but the job is still there, unless we leave that too; the traffic doesn’t disappear because we’re stressed about it.

Circumstances, inanimate objects, friends, lovers, colleagues, weather can trigger our fight:flight reflex.  Mostly we don’t run away, or fight.  We stand still and hope the heart rate slows, the resultant headache will abate, and that our immune system didn’t just slip a notch on the readiness scale, hammered once more by artificial danger.

One winter late afternoon last year I drove slowly through the park, quietly admiring the copper bronze of the oak trees, their pewter taupe trunks reflecting the light of the setting sun.  “Beautiful,” I said. “Now show me the deer.”  The oak trees slanted sideways, like a vertical blind opening, and there stood six deer watching me.  The trees were gone for seconds. I stopped the car, stunned, never taking my eyes from those beautiful animals.  The trees slatted back into view obscuring the deer.  A miraculous moment had been given me and I believe the lesson was about being still.

I was in the park that late afternoon because the outdoors is where I used to go to run away.  To be far from, to distance my transcendent self from whatever trouble trembled on my horizon.   Escape.  The park at least was a destination - a place to fly to.  But the peace I sought was already there behind the fear, obscured by my flight.

What I learned after reflecting on the appearance of the deer was that I take what I am running from with me, like a carry-on bag.  Fleeing from tribulation does not remove concern, indeed if there are others involved, it can only increase turmoil.  Flying from confrontation does not avoid what must be done.  Confusion, loneliness, hurt are the trees that hide the deer of awareness, belonging and love.

Five more decades were needed for the four-year-old me to reach the next level of awareness, and understand that I can be still in the vertical now and escape stress, trouble and the illusion of control by standing quite still.  The deer and the trees taught me this, and I practice this lesson whenever I feel the need to fly away.

It is possible to unhinge the fight:flight reflex with calm practice and reflection.  I place one hand in the other, both palms up, and touch thumbs lightly.  This ritual calms me, sends my reflection inward, focuses my third eye, and disengages the flight reflex.

Now, rather than fly away, I hover: I fly in one place.  Peace is there all along, perhaps hiding behind a quaking heart, but always and instantly a comfort, if we can remember to be still and ask to see the deer.  If I ask, I am able to be still and soar simultaneously.

If I practice and am vigilant in nurturing my inward peace, I can fly.

Linda Robinson is an artist who is still growing up in a small town in beautiful Michigan.  Her work may be viewed at "Sweetgrass:  A Store to Awaken Your Spirit" in Davisburg, MI, at Thomas Video in Clawson, and on her website at www.58moon.com