But something seemed to be missing from my neat little formula; surely the dog’s face was important, too? This dog was eager and friendly, if a bit clumsy, but what if the next dog took a good-sized chunk out of the child’s face? I asked the poet Tony Hoagland what he thought about fear. He said fear was the ghost of an experience: we fear the recurrence of a pain we once felt, and in this way fear is like a hangover. The memory of our pain is a pain unto itself, and thus feeds our fear like a foyer with mirrors on both sides. And then he quoted Auden: “And ghosts must do again/What gives them pain.”

My mother was a fabulous entertainer, nothing gave her greater pleasure.  The summer I turned four she put me on stage to share the fun. Dressed as a hobo I sang, "Down at the station, early in the morning, see the little pufferbellies all in a row... See the station master, turn the little handle, puff, puff, toot, toot. Off we go!"

I continued to share the stage with my mother and others until I left for college.

Fast forward twenty, forty, now a half-century later:  Before an audience I seem calm and competent.  I speak or ask questions, even occasionally sing.  Inside my brain and guts are in flames.

In my late thirties I arrange to attend a reception in New York.  There are a few colleagues from Japan.  I'm introduced to David Rockefeller. We chat about the Rothko exhibit.  I sip red wine with a fellow alumnus of the Reagan White House.  Finally my target enters.  I ease toward him.  We discover a shared interest in the art of Muso Soseki. After speaking softly for twenty minutes, my assignment is completed.

Returning to my hotel room, I thrash in torment, never sleeping, as each word is recalled and found insufficient.

In my late fifties I host a reception in Washington.  Friends and colleagues crowd the room. One calls it a "wonderful event."  He is impressed by the "earnest enthusiasm" of those present.  But more than a dozen others send last-minute regrets.

I am embarrassed and regretful.  Again and again, there is a vague insufficiency.  Again and again there is pain.  Again and again my performance fails to meet expectations, mostly my own.

The shodo above is by Muso Soseki, the Japanese kanji says. "No Spiritual Meaning."