Perspective, Rebellion, and New Possibilities

 

I am a rebel. Have been for longer than I can remember. I am, for the most part, not radical in my rebellion, just fairly consistent. I do not like rules unless they make sense to me. And I question all authority until it proves itself to be worthy of acceptance, thus leadership. I have been known to break with tradition because it smacks of rules set up for inexplicable reasons. Just because a thing has always been that way, doesn’t mean it is good, or even worth doing.

It isn’t easy being a rebel. There are lots of moments when I question my own rebelliousness. It can be so tiring, the constant alertness, struggle and conflict wear thin with time. But, even when I decide that I no longer need this sort of issue in my existence, something comes along to smack me in the face and demand a rebel’s outlook. Just what is that outlook?

It is awareness, an openness that can be hard to maintain. It’s a different perspective from the norm. A constant struggle to stay alert to the fact that each moment is new and will not come again. And a willingness to act in that moment, no matter the feelings that attend it. It is a view that can be both exhilarating and exhausting. That’s the reason I said that I am not radical but am fairly consistent.

I get tired and recede back into my neat little comfort zone. But then, of course, the world comes crashing into my ordered existence, messing with this or that, and here we go again. No one will ever know how many times I have attempted to quash this bit of my personality. Yet, it continues to rise to the surface and make itself known, demanding acknowledgement, or out right action. Given enough discomfort, I will eventually respond to that call.

Which means of course, that I have not always been comfortable with this particular role. Perhaps, I never will be. That’s an exhausting thought all in itself. Can a rebel not rebel? Can a leopard change its spots? Did you know that a black panther is a leopard and that it does have spots? It’s just that the spots are so closely aligned with the color of its fur that they aren’t noticeable until seen very closely. And who, in their right mind, would willingly get that close?

I have a black panther in my Personal Mythology (see Personal Mythology at http://intuitivepaths.wordpress.com/ . His name is Jacob, which means: the supplanter. That one who supplants, replaces the normal order of things. Yup, a rebel. He is closely associated with my emotional landscape and has been for many many years. He is also the only panther I will ever get that close to, if given the choice. I have learned a great deal about rebellion from him, and he has learned a great deal about how to handle a rebel who rebels at rebellion.

So, why rebel at what would seem to be a given? There is this little thing called a primary need for acceptance and belonging. Rebels, like prophets and poets, or any other dreamers, are not easily absorbed into whatever community they find themselves in. They are loners, but that  doesn’t mean they don’t partake in that primary need to be a part of a group. Can you say frustration?

Think about that for a moment. Here is an individual who knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that he/she is different and will always be so. Yet, right alongside of that core reality is the definite inextinguishable yearning to be accepted and to find approval. Fine line balancing act and on occasion one of those whirling plates takes off in its own direction, crashing into whatever stands in its unwitting path. Of course, it becomes pieces and some of them can’t be glued back together again. Whew!

Like I said, it’s not easy being a rebel. Just trying to hang on to all those whirling pieces is time and energy consuming. What about all the rest of life? How does one manage all those other things while making sure all the plates stay up in the air and moving when gravity alone will pull them out of sync and down toward that hard breaking ground?

And there is the underlying point. We are all individuals. That means, we all have some pieces that are different from what others maintain. We all have a set of whirling plates that need to be kept moving and up in the air. We all worry about maintaining that balance and none of us want to end in a crashing and breaking into pieces that can’t be put back together again.

Which means that although I am a rebel and my plates might be a slightly different hue, we are essentially in the same boat. You might not be a rebel, but I’m willing to bet there are moments when you are aware that you are quite different from your fellows. What do you do in those moments? How do you handle them?

Do you kick and scream like I have done? Or, do you accept that difference and use your energies more wisely? Like keeping those different plates up in the air and whirling while you tap dance around all of life’s obstacles? Some of which, by the way, can’t be avoided. Ever.

So, what if anything does all of this have to do with journal writing, which is the essential thrust of this blog. This morning I had a waking dream. One in which I knew I was awake but the scenes from my mind, essentially in dream form, continued to play out clearly on the screen of my thoughts.

Seeing as my journal is the first thing I engage in each morning, I wrote out those scenes and was immediately reminded of a comment that was dropped on one of my other sites last night. It was essentially about what those dream images were actually saying. The dream was about a change in perspective that changes not just the mind of the thinker, but his/her whole view of life and the world he/she inhabits.

It was all about something I have been wrestling with for some time. Something I want changed, but couldn’t seem to see my way through. I needed a new perspective. And my dreaming mind provided that with a little nudge from an unknowing commenter. I need that rebel that lives inside of me. That one who supplants, replaces the norm with something different, something new, and maybe even a bit risky.

Would that have happened if I hadn’t sat down in my very normal fashion and wrote in my journal? Maybe, maybe not. I’m just grateful it all fell in place so smoothly and privately. As I said, I am not radical in my rebellion. I have a tendency to go about it quietly and with deliberate thought. This morning’s writing opened a door to just such possibilities.

That Friday Night Feeling

 

I just spent the better part of an hour and a half writing and talking about the issue of self-trust. It’s a biggie and the umbrella under which each of us travels through every day and night of our existence. It is the most often hidden motivation behind an endless array of personal choices we make, especially in the arena of relationships, as well as a multitude of others.

We are drawn to and attracted by others who validate and help us to like and love ourselves. We need others to let us know that we are not alone, or incapable of being loved. We are born knowing we can’t survive alone and we spend an inordinate amount of the rest of our lives trying to prove that that isn’t the reality, but that scared feeling will arise and eat away at us at odd moments because we first learn to trust others before self.

I trust myself, but I have also spent many Friday night evenings waffling through feelings that don’t seem so clarified at any other time. Why is that? Because on Friday night, the rest of the world is off celebrating the beginnings of a weekend that holds a world of possibilities and I am alone. If I am going to find myself wallowing in a trough of self-pity, it’s probably Friday evening. That very definitive knowledge doesn’t seem to stop all of those feelings, however.

One of the biggest problems with all of that is that when we do get lonely, we have a tendency to look inward and start picking at ourselves. Being our own best bully is a Universal trait. Why didn’t I make plans? I know that Friday evening comes around with precise clockwork efficiency, so why didn’t I act to eliminate the possibility? Well, because. I didn’t really think about it, that’s why. So, week after week, Friday after Friday, that horde of feelings rises up and pretty soon I have created a habit out of it, and those feelings are just doing their part in the way I work.

What a wonderful little circular tread I have created for myself. I’m lonely, or feeling lonely, and that must be my own fault. It would help if I could just remember that Friday night is going to arrive no matter what else I might be engaged in doing. I have to get into the habit of making plans for Friday night so I don’t have to sit here and be bombarded by all of these feelings.

But, I’ve done just that in the past. And yes, it even worked for a while, years in fact, and the fear of Friday evenings was actually diminished for a time. I had a good time instead. Until I got tired of all the running, and discovered that I could feel just as lonely in a crowded room, surrounded by friends, as when I was sitting alone in my easy chair at home. And the awful part was that I was at least more comfortable at home. Didn’t have to deal with looking my best, being on my good behavior, or worry about what someone else might think of the outfit I had on, or the way my hair wouldn’t do anything but fly away.

So, I took my fly away hair and flew home. Ah yes, my own little comfort zone, where I can just relax, listen to my music, read my books, eat whatever I choose, and just be me. Watch tv, or get out an old sketch book, maybe do some drawing or coloring. I could even write, what a novel idea. And that worked for the longest time. That Friday night feeling was all just a myth, a boogey man story to scare little children, and little old ladies.

Wait a minute. I am now one of those little old ladies. And that Friday night feeling seems to be creeping back in, separating itself from the rest of the shadows, and no matter what I might be engaged in, those feelings are being felt again. I put in all this effort, all these years of reading, writing, coloring, and tv watching, just to come back to this place again? Crap! Unadulterated crap.

Okay, let’s go back to the beginning. Do we have to? Yes, afraid so. The beginning was all of those Friday night feelings, right? Well, not exactly. The beginnings were actually the fear of those feelings. They are so heavy and depressing. So what are those feelings, exactly?  Number One, I am not okay if or when I am alone. That is absolutely not true. Prove it. I’ve been alone for a whole lot of years and I’m still breathing. I have not deteriorated into some slavering idiot, or worse, some anti-social monster.

As a matter of fact, its been just the opposite. I’ve found a great deal of value in what I do and who I am. Furthermore, I don’t need anyone else to tell me those things because I know them to be true. Ahhhhhh, did you see that light bulb go on? So what does that all say to you? Mainly it says that yes, I am alone, but that does not automatically mean I need to feel lonely. The two things are not the same. Alone is not lonely, and lonely does not mean alone.

As a matter of fact, being alone on all those Friday evenings has only served to show me that there are a world of things I can do to eliminate those feelings. Not just shove them back into the shadows where they came from, but actually get rid of them. Dispel them, altogether. And all those ‘alone’ Friday evenings taught me one other important thing I needed to learn. I can trust me to deal with those feelings. I can trust the person I have become to see them for what they really are. Just feelings.

Left overs from a past in which I was genuinely lonely and, most often, blamed myself for that reality. It must be because I wasn’t a good enough friend, or failed to make them. I was a bit off, didn’t really fit in anywhere, heard a different drummer, and was always humming some other tune. The most amazing part of those lonely feelings is that they somehow convince one that no one else ever feels them. At which point, one becomes either self-pitying, or beating oneself over the head with a stick of accusations and punishment.

And all of this just brings up a really big question. Do I trust myself enough to be alone with me? The answer is yes, been doing it for years. So much so, that I had to get on the page and explore the whole subject matter, trusting me to get me where I needed to be. I rather like what I have found. Do you trust yourself enough to be alone with you, even on a Friday evening?

A Crow and His Shadow

 

We all have a shadow. I am not speaking about the physical reality that occurs when we stand in any particular light. I am speaking about the shadow aspects of the human psyche. It is often defined as the dark side of human nature. Most often, that is considered to be hidden, secret, and not allowed out into the light of day. And to some extent, that might be a wise choice.

However, to completely shun that darker aspect that lives within each of us, can also cause a great deal of damage. We, in the Western Hemisphere, have a tendency to deal in a dualistic mindset, meaning we most often view things in an either or juxtaposition. Things are black or white, right or wrong, happy or sad, with little in between. No gray areas to mess up that wonderful defining line between the black and white of any matter. But walking that definitive line constantly is incredibly difficult because there are so very many shades of gray between those two points of diversion.

The major advantage to that Dualistic Mindset, is that in any given situation, one should be able to see immediately the right or wrong of a thing. But, we all know that there are layers of gray matter that can interfere with that process. Some of them are what if’s, many of them are the personal circumstances of the viewer, while others are just plain confusion over the exact demarcation line. I might be seeing a bit of grayish white in the situation, while the individual standing next to me might actually be saying, “Charcoal gray.”

The matter of which is which is personal choice, and that is always made through the filter of ones world view. That in turn, goes back to our childhood and what we were taught, and how much we have allowed ourselves to grow since that time period. It speaks directly to what we define as our comfort zone. Each of us allows a certain amount of gray into that zone. We learn to tolerate some levels simply because it is easier, more comfortable that way.

But my comfort zone is different from yours, as yours is different from mine. Which means that what appears as deep charcoal gray to you, may very well appear as no more than a dash of light gray in my personal spectrum. And the most amazing part of that, is that we may each be able to support those views realistically, logically,  and with some amount of passion in the doing. At the very least, it makes for interesting dialogue and debate.

But, back to those shadows. The ones that dwell within us. Most of us are uncomfortable with the idea that there might be something hidden in the interior of our psyche. How can you trust what you can’t see or might not know about? The world abounds with legends and myths about just such a reality. I’m thinking of one I heard years ago. It is Native American in origin, and I apologize because I do not know the particular tribe to which it might be attached, so what you are getting is my paraphrase of said story. However, the story itself is a good example of how some of us deal with even the idea of a shadow aspect within our own person.

It is said that the crow was not always black. That in fact, when first created, his plumage was a wonderful rainbow of colors, unlike that of any other winged creature. He was exceptionally beautiful, and he knew that and took a great deal of pride in that reality. But, it disturbed him that when he went walking in the sunlight to show off his brilliant colors, he was always followed by his shadow.

It was so distressing to him, to have to share that spotlight, that he would only come out when the sun was at its zenith. Which meant that his time of showing the world his singular beauty was quite limited. He became angry and resentful. So much so, that he began to peck at his shadow, trying to get it to go away, to disappear as he pecked pecked his way, whenever he moved or went anywhere.

In turn, his shadow became quite agitated at this relentless pecking, day after day, moment after moment, and all because it was what it was and was simply serving its purpose. Things didn’t go well between the two and one day, with one more peck, the shadow rose up and swallowed that prideful crow completely.

And that is how the crow came to be black all over. However, one can still see some faint aspects of that former brilliant plumage when he walks in the sunlight, and when the sun is just right, one can catch very brief glimpses of all those other colors of the rainbow as they sparkle through the blackness.

If we are not careful, we too can become like the crow. Prideful of our ability to see and be the ‘light’ in our world. We do all have those gray areas within us, those sometimes hidden and secretive aspects that we would like kept in the darkness. Or because we fear that those hidden things would spoil our ‘image’, we might, just like the crow, peck away at them, wasting time and energy trying to keep them hidden from view, which could so limit us, that we are no longer able to move about with any amount of freedom.

Again that choice is personal. We can choose to get to know those aspects, or keep them hidden throughout our lifetimes. Or some level in between those two. Personally, I choose to get to know them as much as possible, even making friends with some. I do that on my journal pages, which keeps it all private and allows me to make far better choices in the rest of my life.

And the most important aspect in all of that, is that I have come to know some of the Wild Things that dwell in those shadows. Things that have made my life happier, freer, and far more interesting than I could have ever imagined. Far deeper in meaning, and filled with a creative energy that never fails to astound me, but also brings satisfying comfort and healing to a soul that yearns for just that.

Who knows, I may be a crow at the bottom of all this writing. Did you know that most cultures believe the crow to be one of the most clever of the entire species of feathered creatures? That might be something worth aiming at.

Cocoons and Comfort Zones

 

Butterfly and Flowers

 

I think the issue with the “authentic self” and finding it is that life teaches us how to lose it at a very young age, to shy away from ourselves and run toward standards and expectations.  __Farah Lawal

Yesterday, I said clearly and without hesitation, “I am a very good writer.” And immediately thought, “depending on the moment, whom I might be with, and whether or not my hair is combed, teeth brushed, how I am dressed (was in my jammies at the time, talking on the phone), what I did or didn’t have for dinner,”  and one hundred other things I won’t mention. It all flashed before my eyes in a second and no, I didn’t die. But, some small tiny aspect of my person wouldn’t have been at all surprised if I had been promptly struck down by lightening.

None of those thoughts, images, or crossed-fingers flinch, came across in my words. It was just a calm cool statement of fact and accepted as such. So, when did all of that happen? Not talking about the statement in time, but the ability to simply say it. And the answer is that I really don’t know. I think its been building and accumulating for some time now, more than likely for years.

The reason none of those inner qualms were apparent was because I actually believe the statement myself. I am a very good writer. So why all the little whispers and flinches in the background, the white noise of my existence?  Habit, just plain habit, and hedging my bets, I assume. But, also the reality of this blog and many things I have already done and accomplished in the past.

Farah’s quote, which was left as a comment here a couple of days ago, is a big part of the mixed bag of inner responses I had last night. A while back, I wrote about the blanket of the socialization process we all, in some form or another, live beneath and also grow up being programmed to. In my neck of the woods, it was perfectly acceptable to learn how to write, it is a necessary skill in later years, if for no other reason than to sign checks and make out grocery lists.

My parents read the newspaper everyday, and although my father could sometimes be found reading a volume of the encyclopedia, recreational reading was not so much frowned upon, as silently ruled to be something one did only on one’s own time and never at the expense of duty, chores, or visitors. In other words, it was considered to be a very private pass-time and one that wasn’t encouraged as a topic of daily conversation. Likewise, writing was something other people, say from another galaxy, might engage in, but it certainly wasn’t for ‘us’.

It doesn’t make any difference how many years I may personally have spent learning these skills and the craft itself, I still carry that message deep inside the very fiber of my being. And I always will. It was woven into the cocoon of my early years, and was enduring enough to become an essential part of the comfort zone I created when I became an adult. I sometimes think it is absolutely amazing that I do this thing at all, given my background. Furthermore, I don’t for one minute, think my experience is rare. As a matter of fact, I think it is as common as dirt.

The cocoon stage of a butterfly’s development process is also called the chrysalis stage. I like that word better. It sounds like a hard substance, and a lot like the word crystal. The cocoon of the socialization process is as important to we humans, as the chrysalis is to the butterfly. It creates both a shelter and a nurture that is absolutely necessary to gaining maturity. But, it too often, as in my case, becomes part and parcel of the comfort zones we create in that mature state.

I have often wondered how many butterflies never make it out of that cocoon. Judging and comparing from the human aspect, probably a great many of them never do. It takes really hard, deliberate and dedicated work to do so. And I would think, all things being somewhat unequal, that some percentage of the butterfly population never emerges into full sunlight. I would also wager to guess that a percentage of human beings never make it out of their comfort zone either. I know several.

Our comfort zone is a lot like an invisible, transparent glass wall that completely surrounds our life and activities. When we accidentally bump up against that wall, we are repelled backward, sometimes rubbing our noses from the hard contact. Anything new, or different, is that wall. People, bits of conversation, behavior that is unfamiliar make us feel uncomfortable and we have a tendency to move away from that discomfort. And we learn something from the experience of bumping noses with that wall. We immediately know that we won’t go back to that place and get whacked again. At least many, if not most of us, have some form of that response.

But, what if I told you that glass wall is created from natural and organic materials, meant to expand to compensate for a life-long growth process? Because I am a terribly curious creature (with a streak of the rebel, as well), I have a tendency to rub my nose with one hand, then put my other hand up to feel the texture of what I’ve just walked into. And that part of me is also natural and organic material. It, like the comfort zone I created, is a learned experience, thus able to be unlearned, or changed if I so choose.

That choice is yours as well. You may, or may not, have any deep desire to one day say, “I am a very good writer,” but, I’m willing to bet that there is at least one thing you would like to feel the texture of, get to know a wee bit better, and maybe even learn how to flutter and fly around, exploring, tasting, and sniffing at what is there. Push against those glass walls, let yourself find how expandable they really are.

An excellent way to do just that is to write about it. That way, you can satisfy your curiosity, find out how you feel about it, list all the excuses you can come up with as to why it’s a bad idea, and a few of the reasons why it might not be. Furthermore, you can do all of that while sitting smack dab in the middle of your own comfort zone, maybe even in your most comfortable set of jammies.

Personal Take Cont. (WT, as well)

 

I came home from the hospital to a totally different environment than the one I had left beneath the rear wheel of my father’s big black Pontiac. My world had been altered and, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see what I had grown accustomed to seeing. I was changed both inside and outside. Besides having to deal with my changed and altered appearance, I had been thrust into learning the most important lesson we may all have to learn. I could have died, had come very close to that reality, at age four. And a four year old hasn’t yet developed all of the necessary synapses to untangle that large of an equation in a real, or adequate, manner. I couldn’t, didn’t even come close.

What I did conclude, at age four, was pretty garbled at best. My first day home is a good example. There were two built-in window seats opposite from one another, but situated between the kitchen and the dining room. My Mother had placed me on one of them, so that she could keep a close eye on me, and if I needed anything, she would be within reach immediately. I was terribly excited to be home again, and couldn’t wait to see my siblings, who were across the street at school. I could see through the back door window, and when my brother appeared, without any thought, I jumped up and ran giggling to the other window seat so that I could surprise him. My Mother reacted immediately, saying that I could not, under any circumstances, do that again, and I needed to remember that I wasn’t to move, or get up on my feet for any reason, due to doctor’s orders. My brother hung his head mumbling, perhaps thinking he was at fault for this latest admonishment.

What I felt, and experienced, was a deep deep loss. This was home, but I had no idea how I fit in anymore. My Mother was busy doing what she always did, fixing a meal and tending to things. My brother was coming home from school, as usual, and my older sister would be shortly doing the same. I had so missed being a part of all of that. But, they had obviously gone on being exactly who and what they were. Now I was back, but somehow different and needed to understand the new rules and how all of it worked. Somehow that all translated into the idea that my family had gone on being a family and they didn’t need me to complete that definition. Not only did I not fit, but I wasn’t necessary to the picture any more. I was something different, something outside that circle. Although I could be a part of it, somehow I no longer fit “inside” of it.

Let me stop here for a moment. As we move through our lives, we filter our experiences through the world view we created as a child. That worldview becomes the basic structure upon which we hang whatever we come into contact with. Thus, there are individuals who have never questioned some of the beliefs they have held most of their lives. It is what they were taught and it is what they go right on believing unless life throws them a serious curve and they become aware that maybe their view has been skewed. There are whole families that never leave the small neighborhoods in which they find themselves, because it has been that way for generations and they can’t begin to think of doing otherwise. Until one of their number actually moves outside that map of awareness, they wouldn’t even consider it and sometimes actually do remain through several consecutive generations.

I have spoken many times of the comfort zone we all erect. That comfort zone is established within the boundaries of ones worldview. Thus one stays where one is most comfortable, even when it is no longer so, because it is what one knows and has yet to discover there might actually be a different, even better way of doing, thinking, and even feeling about all of it. The best example I can think of, is a woman who returns again and again to an abusive mate. She may try to move on, but unless she actually finds that she can do so, and survive, she will return to what she knows. There is a saying that expresses that, but fits the definition of what I am talking about as well: Better the bogey man you know, than the one you don’t know. It is extremely hard to live with constant fear and anxiety, and that is what is created when one moves outside that comfort zone, or catches a glimpse of what might exist beyond ones established worldview. It is far easier to fight the change that might entail, than to push oneself to move toward or actually into it.

I had been outside the circle of my family at a very impressionable age. I had tasted that outside space, lived in it, and survived that experience. I had even explored it a bit, been wheeled around to see and visit other children on the ward while I was there. Spent more than one whole afternoon in the company of a stranger, albeit, another child, bedridden and needing some distraction, but I had been exposed to other views and modes of being. And with the trust of a child, had embraced a great deal of what I had come into contact with. And that outside flavor clung to my person. It was there and without my conscious thought, it crept into the way I saw and felt my own experience, my own person, and my sense of how the world as a whole operated, as well as my particular place in that world. In other words, it became a part of my own developing worldview. And it was decidedly different from the one my siblings knew, and the one my parents were attempting to teach me.

I felt lonely. Had just been away from home for the first time in my life, but was suddenly aware of being lonely in a way I had never felt before. I was in the very heart of my family, yet I didn’t feel at home. I was different, and would perhaps remain so for all of my life, and even had that ugly scar to prove it. They were the same, but they were different. And like any child of that age, I took on full responsibility for that difference. It must have been my fault, I was the one who ran behind the car. I was the one who slipped and fell, failed to get myself out of the way and caused myself and both of my parents an extreme amount of pain.

This was not an easy write, even though I know the material backward and forward after years of exploring it. I have been interrupted several times and every time was grateful for the distraction. The voice of resistance has been screaming in my ear, “don’t go there. Let it alone. Nothing will be changed if you stop. No one has to know any of this. And you’ll be far more comfortable not saying it at all. Besides, maybe the interruptions are meant to stop you from making an even bigger mistake, making this public, exposing yourself in this manner. What’s to be gained by it?”

What is to be gained is this: If only one individual reads this and finally understands and accepts their own view of their own story, I have accomplished exactly what I set out to do. This is, after all, the story of the birth of the Wild Things inside of me. And their story may be far more important than my own. Especially if another person listens and recognizes it as a piece of their own experience. Not to be dismissed or ignored, but of utmost importance in understanding who and what they are, and why they are. I am certainly not the only individual who has lived a majority of her life uncomfortable within her own skin. I will certainly not be the last one.

The resistance has been resisted, and I may relax because, just for today, I have done exactly what I set out to do. And, that’s never anything to sniff at. What’s more, the story will continue, next time.

Turkey

 

It’s Thanksgiving today. And across the nation, people will be gathering in small and large groups to feast on whatever has been prepared. I hope you have a nice day, filled with laughter, warm hugs, and great food. For those of you who might be alone, I wish you a bit of the same. Find something that will make you smile, even laugh out loud. There are tons of videos on the Internet to fuel such an experience. If you have no one to talk with, write a letter to someone who gave you something important in the past. Thank them for that and explain what it really meant to you. Turn on some music and dance. Make yourself a special feast. You are worth it.

For many of us, this day means getting outside our normal comfort zone. It often entails people we don’t normally see, and lots of memories, both good and bad. Let yourself drift through that, and be grateful for the good ones, while finding something to laugh about in the bad ones. There is usually some bit of oddity to turn into humor, even in those bad moments. While the kids are running around, yelling or screaming, remember that, at one point, that was you. Did you need a hug back then? Then be the one to give it now. Tell a story from the past, children listen. Sing an old song. Enjoy.

If you go expecting bad things and discomfort, that’s exactly what you’ll find. If you go with a light heart, hope and expectations, you may be that for another. Whatever you do, wherever you are, this day will be a good one, if that is what you truly desire it to be. There will be mistakes, accidents, maybe even chaotic disorganization. It’s one day. Only one, and it will be much better if you smile. So smile and be grateful for whatever you have, and are, in this moment.

Have a wonderful day, and may you be blessed,

Elizabeth

Applying The Psychic Brakes

I had never heard of psychic brakes until I read Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. In it, she talks about how we get a bit frightened when things begin to fall into place, move smoothly toward our chosen destination. It feels a bit out-of-control, so we apply the brakes to regain our own sense of being in control of our destinies. To slow down the process because we might make a mistake, mess up the whole ball of wax, screw it up somehow. And, of all imaginable horrors, possibly wreck the dream we have aimed ourselves at fulfilling. We also do that when we don’t believe we deserve to have that dream fulfilled, we aren’t adequate to the plan, can’t see ourselves actually standing triumphant in that place we have only harbored in our imaginations. What we do is sabotage ourselves, our dreams, our desires. We resist those things we want most to see happen, and we already know what resistance looks like (an underlined poor, fragile old woman).

Another definition for resistance is fear. Imagine, if you will, that you are driving along a curving country road, lined with huge oak trees. Its night, only your headlights to see where you are going, when suddenly you can no longer hear the swish of your tires against the pavement, all is silent. You are traveling on ice. You know that, you stiffen up every muscle, and the only desire you have is to slam on the brakes and stop the forward motion. You might start talking to yourself, telling yourself to relax, breathe, you do know what to do, you can pump the brakes gently to slow yourself down in increments, but the desire is strong to apply all those stiffened muscles to the task.

In this scenario, you know that if you slam on the brakes, you will more than likely put your vehicle and yourself into a deadly skid, sending yourself in an even more out of control trajectory, spinning helplessly, until something in your path (like one of those oak trees) stops the motion permanently. But even though we might know all of that in detail, the strongest urge is to slam on the brakes to gain control, to put a stop to the forward motion, but also to put a stop to that feeling of fear.

Gavin De Becker is the author of a very interesting book titled, The Gift of Fear. We don’t often think of fear as a gift, its an uncomfortable feeling, one that we’d rather not experience if we can avoid it. And we do avoid it. We do that by sticking with the familiar, the known of our world and experience. That is our comfort zone, the place that allows us to not experience those uncomfortable feelings like fear. Inside our comfort zone, we can move with some amount of ease because we know what to expect, and more importantly, we pretty much can be sure that what we encounter is something we can actually deal with, something that won’t challenge us to do, or be, what we are not, and don’t know how to do. That means we don’t have to worry about appearing inadequate, unknowing, silly, or foolish. We can relax, just be ourselves. But, what exactly is that?

Someone who doesn’t go anywhere, do much of anything, and certainly doesn’t challenge self to be anything more than a lump of inertia? A physical or mental couch potato? That is the danger of remaining too long within the confines of our well-established comfort zones. Inside of them, we can’t afford to grow or we risk no longer fitting right there in our comfortable little niche. And we also begin to fear anything that might move us outside of that niche. We become overtly limited, as well as limiting. Eventually, we not only stop growing, we literally stop living and begin to do no more than exist. Life becomes the same old, same old, mostly grey, because colors would call for a response and a response means an output of energy. What a deadly, life defying circle we create. All for the sake of feeling comfortable, all for the purpose of avoiding that uncomfortable feeling of fear.

What does any of this have to do with keeping a journal? Everything. Keeping a journal is picking up a pen, or sitting at a computer and making words. Making words is a difficult task because one must first think of the word one wants to write, and then follow it with another one, and so on and so on. And that is precisely what we are avoiding isn’t it, that challenge that will move us outside of our comfort zone? “Easy for you to say,” you think, “you are so full of words…” But, if you have been reading this blog, you know that even I can run away from the challenge.

Does that mean I fear making the words. No, I’m not afraid of the words, they are only random letters of the alphabet, put together in a certain order. Their order is what I fear, because I can hear them, understand what they are speaking of, and it is that which I fear. Remember, words have an uncanny magical power. That’s because they have both the ability of being spoken, but also of being heard. And they often change while in the air between those two different, but distinct, locations. Words can be changlings and they can transform both the speaker and the listener, even when those two individuals are the one and same person.

Just because I have some amount of ease with the making of words, doesn’t mean I don’t own and love my own comfort zone. I do, and am very territorial about said niche. But, I also want to grow, to continue to become the best human being it’s possible for me to be. I need the words, and have learned to live with the fear that making them entails. And because I do, I unwrapped that gift, and now know why I ran the other day, know exactly what prompted me to do so. Have asked myself the questions and found some surprising answers. Answers that allow me to not slam on the psychic brakes, put myself in a tail spin, and harm all those lovely old oak trees. What’s more, I did all of that while sitting right here in my only little niche, allowing my comfort zone to expand and accomadate this newer version of me.

Resistance

Yes, I know. I’m late. Came here this morning, sat down to write, and suddenly didn’t want to do that. It wasn’t because I didn’t have ideas about what to write. As a matter of fact, I had way too many and couldn’t make up my mind just where to begin. So, I just sat and stared for a bit, until my sister called and asked me if I wanted to go shopping. Shopping is not my favorite activity, by a long shot, but this morning I jumped at the opportunity. Off I went to spend money that is short, on a list of things I want, but don’t need immediately, a list that just keeps getting longer because the short money thing is a permanent fixture of my existence. So, why did I do that? Run away, escape to a place that only exhausts me and reminds me that my life is not all that I would have it to be? It’s called Resistance.

Resistance to sit and do the task. Resistance to writing, putting more words on paper. Resistance to this very thing I love to do. So why the resistance? If I love it, actually come to it with eagerness and even anticipation, why would I engage in resisting it? Why would I come here, all prepared to do it, then grasp at the flimsiest of excuses to remove myself from the clear opportunity to partake in it? Would you accept an, “I don’t know?” Maybe you would, but I can’t. I, after all, know the dangers of doing just that.

I know, for instance, that saying I’ll get back to it tomorrow, will more than likely find me accepting the next excuse that comes along. And the next one, and the next, until I find that instead of hours missing in action, I might be AWOL for a month or two or three. Even a year, maybe more. Been there, done that, and more than once, as a matter of fact. There is only one solution that I am aware of: resist the resistance. The only way to do that is by coming back here, sitting down, and writing.

Resistance is a natural part of the human condition. We don’t want to change, don’t want to move outside of our comfort zone, don’t want to upset the applecart, make waves that could splash us with a ton of cold water. We’d much prefer to sit back, get comfy and cozy and let it all go run the way it has always done. And mostly that means, without our input. It’s so much easier to let someone else do it, take charge, make the rules, assign the assignments, make sure that it all gets done. Then our only role is to complain when it gets screwed up or doesn’t work, and we even know exactly who to blame if that happens. And it certainly isn’t numero uno, now is it?

I mean, I could so easily say this is all my sister’s fault. She, after all, stepped into my space and enticed me, now didn’t she? She dangled all that forbidden fruit in front of my eyes, what can one poor (underline the poor), frail old woman do? I’ll tell you what she did. She shut down this computer, broke speed records taking a shower, getting dressed, and out the door, before she could stop and think about the very real fact that she actually hates to go shopping. That thought didn’t occur until she was belted in the front passenger seat, leaving the driveway.

But she did distract herself. She saw a huge hawk sitting up high on a tree branch. Asked her sister to turn the car around and go back and take a look. He was beautiful. Do you know the symbolism of the hawk? He is considered, by many, to be a spiritual messenger, soaring up high between heaven and earth, bringing messages from that far away Sky World, back to this more mundane one. And his message? “Remember who you really are.” Ummmmm, that didn’t work so well.

But her sister asked if they could go out to eat before shopping. More forbidden fruit, and certainly a distraction away from that silly symbolic message. So, of course, that poor (underline it), fragile old woman said, “yes.” It was obvious that that was part of the plan all along, and besides, her sister was driving so she really didn’t have much choice in the matter, did she? But, she did happen to mention that she never eats breakfast unless its at a restaurant, because she hates to cook it. So much more delicious when someone else makes the mess and has to clean it up. And delicious it was.

So, her sister drops her at the Super Store she prefers, and then takes off for the grocery store because that was the kind of shopping her sister needed to do. She climbs inside the battery powered cart and goes in search of poster putty. Can’t find it. Asks, but gets head scratches and vague directions to the other side of the store, of course. On the way over, she passes the Women’s Clothing and takes a quick peek to see if they have the kind of pants she prefers. They do, but she needs to try them on (hates that more than shopping), and finds that she’s dropped a few sizes. It’s been awhile and, did I mention, she really hates shopping?

She manages to get a few grocery items, then realizes that its probably time to go looking for her sister, who said she’d be back in about an hour and a half. Rides her cart along the front end of the store making herself highly visible so said sister can find her. While doing so, it occurs to her that she does need ink cartridges for her computer. She is a writer, you know, and will be needing more of it soon. Those particular items, of course, are at the far back of the store. She manages to get them, put them in her cart, and heads up front again, where her sister is pacing back and forth, looking for her. Check out, load up, and head for home and putting all of it away.

She comes in the bedroom to hang up her new pants, and sees a note from her daughter leaning against the monitor screen. Grabs the note and looks up to see a magnificent hawk, wings spread against the sky, on her screen. It’s one of the many photos she has saved to use for a screen saver slide show, and to remind her of that symbolic and spiritual message. She’s exhausted and takes a nap. When she awakens, she moves to sit in front of the computer. She needs to check out a poetry site that she recently posted on. Wants to know if anyone has responded. Does that, only to find herself back here, right where she started this morning. Have you ever heard a poor (duly noted and underlined), fragile old woman laugh out loud? It’s a very strong sound, and it has a tendency to shake up those demons called Resistance. They know what it means. So do I.

Resistance is a natural part of our being. And, we do resist the very things we want most and even need. We do it because the things we want and need will change our world as we know it. They might even change us.