The Wicked Willow That Haunted My Brother

Just stop looking at it!

It was an exciting day. My little brother was going to learn to ride a bike.

As for me, I was already a master cyclist at age seven, confidently tooling around the neighborhood with my orange Schwinn banana-seat roadster. It had tasseled high-rise handlebars and the Jack of Spades clothespinned to the rear spokes for motorcycle effect. My rig was indistinguishable from a full-on Harley in my bad-ass, elementary school mind.

I was proudly right beside my dad, ready to help my kid brother graduate from training wheels to the rest of his free-riding life.

We took to the front lawn, a sprawling, grassy, courtyard that was shared by over a dozen other apartment units that faced the freshly mowed commons. My brother stood wide-eyed as a few twists of a crescent wrench shed those training wheels, and then we rolled his liberated bike to the center of the open field.

My dad explained how he’d hold the seat to keep my brother upright until he found his balance and then let him ride on his own. But then, inadvertently, he casually delivered a curse my brother would not recover from by adding . . .

“Just don’t hit the tree.”

The tree in question was a single small willow, far off in one corner of the field near the sidewalk. Its total occupancy of the lawn was less than eight inches in diameter—approximately .008% of the total square footage of the entire riding area. In actuality, barely worth mentioning.

If you looked at its canopy, however, the tree was very visible. Its newly budding limbs were opulently framed against the sky. And yet, from the look on my brother’s face as he craned his head around to note the location of the tree, it appeared as a medusa head of menacing green tendrils that were hungry for blood.

My dad pointed him in the opposite direction of the tree, and off they went on my brother’s maiden voyage. Momentum was quickly gained and my brother found his balance in short order.

Dad let go.

This was a celebratory moment of solo riding glory. And it lasted about four seconds. After that, my brother had to make a hard turn at the edge of the lawn to head back into the free riding area. That’s when he looked up to see that distant dastardly tree. Again, in actuality, it was a small, sweet, lime green willow with a spindly adolescent trunk—but it was apparently a rare species with the mysterious capacity to exert a celestial-grade gravitational pull on the mind of an innocent five-year-old.

We watched as my poor brother proceeded to swivel his bobble head to and fro between the free path before him and the location of the distant tiny tree, and in his desperation to avoid making contact, did in fact, engineer a precise and direct collision with it.

He toppled over onto the thankfully forgiving grass upon impact.

My dad and I should not have shown our amusement, but the hilarity of this absurd and unlikely accident was too spectacular to suppress and we laughed out loud.

After we composed ourselves, my dad helped my brother back to the center of the yard to try again, reasonably assuming that this funny lesson had been learned and success was at hand.

Um . . . no.

My kid brother proceeded to repeat the exact same process half a dozen times, unable to remove the looming threat of this incidental sapling from his fear-gripped brain. Repeatedly, he kept running right into that lone humble tree.

Perhaps you’re wondering whatever became of my brother. Well, you’ll be happy to know that he did learn to ride a bicycle with above average competence, in fact, he has half a dozen of them hanging in his garage. As far as I know, his children did not inherit his penchant for early-life woodland collisions, and all is well.

But the principle at play here is hard to miss. When we can’t stop thinking about what we hope to god doesn’t happen—it often does. Just because we’re giving it so damn much attention that it becomes hard to see the alternate routes and outcomes that are preferable.

What future train wreck are you staring at these days in your mind’s eye? Or, can you remember a time when your fear of something happening actually contributed to its occurrence?

Like imagining a conversation going badly and approaching it with so much tension it unsurprisingly does. Or being afraid you’ll crash on skis, roller blades, or skates and derailing the confidence you need to stay steady on your feet. Or being so nervous about a speaking presentation that you completely derail your usual capacity to work your tongue.

Common wisdom tells us to just put your attention elsewhere, but it’s easier said than done. I’ve heard it suggested that our brain does not process the word “don’t” and often saying the word “don’t” to yourself or someone else has the opposite effect.

“Don’t go off your diet.”

“Don’t look at the car accident.”

“Don’t stare at the man with no arms.”

Here’s what can help.

Whatever is looming in the private recesses of your attention as the terrible thing that might happen, try sharing the inner drama of your imagination with somebody else. This can help its magnified ridiculousness become more apparent to you. You can then hitch a ride on the regulated nervous system of a caring friend or family member by speaking your fear aloud and watching them remain serene and centered in response. Your mirror neurons will automatically pattern off their state and help you to follow suit.

For instance, a recent round of anxiety attacks left me feeling like I was going to die. I shared my fears with my family members and they both calmly took out their ear buds to say, “Wud’d yu say?” with no visible concern—totally setting me and my silly mind at ease.

Okay, it’s quiz time.

Let’s review what we’ve learned from my little brother’s example.

Choose the right answer from below.

1. Willow trees are inherently evil.

2. Putting your attention on what you do want is more effective than putting it on what you don’t want.

3. Screaming “calm down” at someone who is freaking out is the best way to steady their nerves.

I know . . . it’s a tough one.

I’ll reveal the right answer in my newsletter next week.

In the meantime, whatever you do, don’t panic.