So, it's my birthday. Today I am 37 years old.
I have always loved my birthday. When May rolls around, I start looking forward to the big day. A whole month of anticipation, until the 24th comes. I actually considered the entire month of May my "birth-month". Why have I made such a fuss about my birthday?
Because in some ways it's been the only day of the year when I allowed myself to experience a sense of abundance. Sad to realize that. Just one day a year when I would allow myself to believe that I can have whatever I want.
But this year it feels different. I've had a few years of practice at giving myself what I want. Not necessarily going out and buying the thing that I longed for, but coming up with some way of meeting the underlying need.
I have learned to see myself as worthy of abundance, worthy of having all my needs truly fulfilled. For the past few months, it's been easier to do, and I've become more consistent at pinpointing my needs and working really hard to come up with creative strategies to see that they are met. To know that I CAN have all my needs met. It is within my power.
And then (now stay with me here...) in the last few weeks, I've been experiencing what I would call an exalted state -- I have been able to see and treat myself with care every day, throughout the day. Whatever feelings I meet -- anxiety, sadness, loneliness -- I see them through the eyes of Love (you can call it the universe or God/Goddess or something else), hold them with tenderness and compassion and give myself whatever I need to feel comforted. Yes, it's kind of amazing. No, I don't know how to explain it, except to identify the things that I've been doing differently: Daily spiritual practices. Praying and singing. Weekly extended meditation sessions. Self-appreciation work. Lots of healing old wounds.
I guess a good way to describe it is to say I'm joyful. Or fulfilled. Or maybe just awake to the abundance that's always been there all around me.
I know this sense of abundance will lessen, I guess it will ebb and flow over time. But having experienced this means I will always know it's there to be found again.
So, what does it mean to have a birthday if it's not the only day of the year that I get to experience abundance? What does "Happy Birthday" mean if I'm happy already?
My thoughts land on the typical question: What do I want for my birthday?
Most years I can easily think of an answer. A necklace. New shoes. A small kitchen appliance.
Nope. I have all those things. In fact, I have everything I need.
What do I want for my birthday?
Today I'm surprised by the answer that's coming up: To give.
I'll be honest with you, I'm not very familiar with this feeling, the urge for spontaneous giving.
Oh surely I do give already. And I enjoy giving in many ways - giving attention to loved ones, giving time and money to a beloved cause. But other than that, in a general way, I have a rebellious attitude about giving. I have been carrying around a lot of weighty messages attached to giving, like: "Be a good person and give to others." "Give - Don't be so selfish." "You have so much, why don't you give a little of that away?"
These messages have been like a heavy pack on my back, making me feel sluggish and dejected. The rebellious daughter in me shouts, "No, I don't want to give and you can't make me!" Why would I want to give when I didn't have a sense that I had enough myself?
But today the weight is gone. I don't know why. Maybe a million reasons. But it's simply not there.
To give. It feels like an invitation with infinite possibilities. What would I like to give? How would I like to give?
I actually have no idea what I will do with this feeling. Maybe I'll just sit with it a while and notice what it's like. Just having this feeling is a new and wonderful birthday gift.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
The green-eyed monster
Have you ever had this experience? You're watching two people enjoying each other's company (it may be your spouse and your child, two friends, your boss and a coworker), and you have an intense urge to burst in and commandingly shout, "Break it up, you two!" Or alternately, you suddenly begin showing off your dance moves or breaking into song, calling everyone's attention to you?
Um, no... me neither.
Of course we have all felt jealousy. My earliest memory of it (and what has now become a classic family story) is when I was a young child and saw my mother and father hugging, and I barged in between the two of them, declaring "There's another little girl in the family!"
I'm curious about what situations bring about feelings of jealousy. When I think about incidents when I felt jealous, they were often times when I observed a certain quality (e.g., affection, attention, fun) that I was particularly craving and experiencing a lack of.
I remember one time when my husband and son and I were at a restaurant. I was watching the two of them being funny and laughing together. And I remember thinking, "When is the last time I really laughed hard, really connected with my sense of humor?"
Another time I saw a friend giving another friend a neck massage, and it hit me how deeply I was longing for some healing touch myself.
Sometimes the jealousy is connected to deeper feelings of inadequacy, stemming from a kind of generalized fear of abandonment, sparked by thoughts like, "If she enjoys his company, she must no longer enjoy my company" and "There's not enough love to go around."
This last one is particularly painful, and crazy-making.
On top of all this, experiencing jealousy is downright embarrassing for me. It's full of messages like, "It's not nice to be jealous," and "If you were a good mother/friend/spouse, you wouldn't have these feelings."
BUT... if I can see jealousy as a normal reaction to noticing my own needs, then I can see the green-eyed monster not as a monster at all, but as a wake-up call. Like a friend, whispering in my ear: "Pay attention - this is something you want more of in your life."
A few weeks ago I had this experience: Once again, watching my husband and son interact with affection and laughing, I felt the jealousy creeping in, which was tinged with a kind of melancholy and longing. But this time I noticed the jealousy and held it with care, until slowly a sense of beauty came along. And I was able to appreciate this beautiful moment, watching two people I love enjoy themselves, and see it as an expression of what I love and hold dear in the world.
And even though I wasn't directly involved in the sharing of affection, I became a part of it. In fact, the quality of affection seemed to fill the whole room. There was enough for everyone to enjoy.
How have you experienced jealousy in your life? What are some ways you have been successful in responding to feelings of jealousy?
Um, no... me neither.
Of course we have all felt jealousy. My earliest memory of it (and what has now become a classic family story) is when I was a young child and saw my mother and father hugging, and I barged in between the two of them, declaring "There's another little girl in the family!"
I'm curious about what situations bring about feelings of jealousy. When I think about incidents when I felt jealous, they were often times when I observed a certain quality (e.g., affection, attention, fun) that I was particularly craving and experiencing a lack of.
I remember one time when my husband and son and I were at a restaurant. I was watching the two of them being funny and laughing together. And I remember thinking, "When is the last time I really laughed hard, really connected with my sense of humor?"
Another time I saw a friend giving another friend a neck massage, and it hit me how deeply I was longing for some healing touch myself.
Sometimes the jealousy is connected to deeper feelings of inadequacy, stemming from a kind of generalized fear of abandonment, sparked by thoughts like, "If she enjoys his company, she must no longer enjoy my company" and "There's not enough love to go around."
This last one is particularly painful, and crazy-making.
On top of all this, experiencing jealousy is downright embarrassing for me. It's full of messages like, "It's not nice to be jealous," and "If you were a good mother/friend/spouse, you wouldn't have these feelings."
BUT... if I can see jealousy as a normal reaction to noticing my own needs, then I can see the green-eyed monster not as a monster at all, but as a wake-up call. Like a friend, whispering in my ear: "Pay attention - this is something you want more of in your life."
A few weeks ago I had this experience: Once again, watching my husband and son interact with affection and laughing, I felt the jealousy creeping in, which was tinged with a kind of melancholy and longing. But this time I noticed the jealousy and held it with care, until slowly a sense of beauty came along. And I was able to appreciate this beautiful moment, watching two people I love enjoy themselves, and see it as an expression of what I love and hold dear in the world.
And even though I wasn't directly involved in the sharing of affection, I became a part of it. In fact, the quality of affection seemed to fill the whole room. There was enough for everyone to enjoy.
How have you experienced jealousy in your life? What are some ways you have been successful in responding to feelings of jealousy?
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Knowing and not knowing
This week I'll be facilitating a workshop on the topic of "readiness to change": what makes a caregiver or early educator willing and able to change something about the way they interact with young children.
Although I have written about this topic in professional journals, presented this material in front of various audiences, and led similar workshops several times, I am finding a very uncomfortable, nervous, and scared knot in my stomach as I prepare for Wednesday's event. So, as I find myself awake at 4 in the morning, I will take some time to care for this tender spot and ask myself, Where is this coming from?
As I invite myself to sit quietly and see what comes up, the first thing I notice is a slew of judgments:
You don't know anything about this topic.
You don't know what the participants are like or what their job entails.
You don't know anything about what it's like to be a teacher.
You don't know, you don't know, you don't know. (This one is on endless replay.)
My first reaction is, "I'm confused. How can you say I don't know anything - I know a LOT about this topic! More than anyone else in the room, anyway. I'm prepared, I'm knowledgeable, so how can you say I don't know anything?"
But then I recognize the deeper meaning behind what the You-Don't-Know chorus is saying: It's true that I don't know how the participants will experience this topic. I don't know what other people's experience is like until I ask. It's important to me to respect and validate the fact that we each have a life experience that is uniquely our own, and I would never want to presume to tell anyone what their life is like, what they should do, or what they ought to believe. So it seems the message I'm trying to tell myself is: Don't try to be the "expert." Express that you value each person's unique experience and understanding. Be curious - ask what it's like for them to think about this topic.
At the same time, the Researcher part of me seems to be saying: I need to be validated for the time and effort I have spent learning about this topic. And I want to honor the collective wisdom of all the people who came before me who have contributed to this work, who have studied, conducted research, and in some cases committed their lives to understanding how to support people in the process of change. I think this part of me has a need to matter - I need validation that the work I do has value, and that it makes a difference in the world.
Finally, there's a vulnerable and heartfelt part of me, the Human-Being-in-Researcher's-Clothing, who is saying: I have struggled with this very issue in my own experience as a parent. Intentionally making changes in the way I interact with my son has taken an immense amount of courage and persistence. It has required me to look right into the face of my fear, guilt, shame, sadness and sometimes desperation. I do know what this experience is like, and I want to honor and recognize that my personal experience has as much, if not more, value than my intellectual knowledge and understanding.
Ah, that's the one that released the knot in my stomach. Remembering that I am a human being, that I can show up to facilitate a workshop as a human being, and that I can see everyone in the room as a human being.
Remembering that I can know and not know at the same time. That in fact, what I think I know is actually looser and more fluid than it seems. And that sometimes not knowing might be the most solid thing to hold onto.
Recognizing and accepting that knowing in my head and knowing in my heart feel very different. I am still seeking deeper ways of integrating head and heart, but for now I hold it as a question: What would it look like to know with head and heart aligned?
"Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught." - Oscar Wilde
Although I have written about this topic in professional journals, presented this material in front of various audiences, and led similar workshops several times, I am finding a very uncomfortable, nervous, and scared knot in my stomach as I prepare for Wednesday's event. So, as I find myself awake at 4 in the morning, I will take some time to care for this tender spot and ask myself, Where is this coming from?
As I invite myself to sit quietly and see what comes up, the first thing I notice is a slew of judgments:
You don't know anything about this topic.
You don't know what the participants are like or what their job entails.
You don't know anything about what it's like to be a teacher.
You don't know, you don't know, you don't know. (This one is on endless replay.)
My first reaction is, "I'm confused. How can you say I don't know anything - I know a LOT about this topic! More than anyone else in the room, anyway. I'm prepared, I'm knowledgeable, so how can you say I don't know anything?"
But then I recognize the deeper meaning behind what the You-Don't-Know chorus is saying: It's true that I don't know how the participants will experience this topic. I don't know what other people's experience is like until I ask. It's important to me to respect and validate the fact that we each have a life experience that is uniquely our own, and I would never want to presume to tell anyone what their life is like, what they should do, or what they ought to believe. So it seems the message I'm trying to tell myself is: Don't try to be the "expert." Express that you value each person's unique experience and understanding. Be curious - ask what it's like for them to think about this topic.
At the same time, the Researcher part of me seems to be saying: I need to be validated for the time and effort I have spent learning about this topic. And I want to honor the collective wisdom of all the people who came before me who have contributed to this work, who have studied, conducted research, and in some cases committed their lives to understanding how to support people in the process of change. I think this part of me has a need to matter - I need validation that the work I do has value, and that it makes a difference in the world.
Finally, there's a vulnerable and heartfelt part of me, the Human-Being-in-Researcher's-Clothing, who is saying: I have struggled with this very issue in my own experience as a parent. Intentionally making changes in the way I interact with my son has taken an immense amount of courage and persistence. It has required me to look right into the face of my fear, guilt, shame, sadness and sometimes desperation. I do know what this experience is like, and I want to honor and recognize that my personal experience has as much, if not more, value than my intellectual knowledge and understanding.
Ah, that's the one that released the knot in my stomach. Remembering that I am a human being, that I can show up to facilitate a workshop as a human being, and that I can see everyone in the room as a human being.
Remembering that I can know and not know at the same time. That in fact, what I think I know is actually looser and more fluid than it seems. And that sometimes not knowing might be the most solid thing to hold onto.
Recognizing and accepting that knowing in my head and knowing in my heart feel very different. I am still seeking deeper ways of integrating head and heart, but for now I hold it as a question: What would it look like to know with head and heart aligned?
"Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught." - Oscar Wilde
Friday, May 4, 2012
Trapped in a box
I'm trapped in a box
I'm not alone
I know of others with a box as their home
Light only enters from a crack or a hole
This is not enough for a human to grow
-Lyrics from "Trapped in a box" by No Doubt
There's a part of me who was living in a box for many years. I call her "Malka," meaning "queen" in Hebrew. She's the wild child in me, the part who is creative, silly, artistic, playful, and loves to be the center of attention. This was the part of me that as a child would make up songs and direct my friends in skits that we performed for our parents. In many of my family's early home movies, you can see me dancing, singing, and generally hamming it up in front of the camera. I loved anything with a quality of elaborate theatrics or pageantry. In 3rd grade my friends and I created a secret society for which we wrote something like 14 short songs that we sang at every meeting, including modified lyrics to the national anthem. In my first year of college, my roommate and I would do silly things like paint bruises on our body with make-up and put our arms in slings, then see if we could convince our friends that we had just gotten in a fistfight with each other.
I became re-acquainted with Malka about a year ago, and that's when she told me that she had been living in a box, basically hibernating, for most of my adult life. I don't know exactly how she got there, but I guess there are a lot of contributing factors: fear of not fitting in, self-criticism for not living up to society's expectations for how an adult is supposed to behave, shame from telling myself "No one likes an attention hog."
The day I reconnected with her, it felt like a wall had been lifted, as if I had been living in a tiny closet and now found myself standing on top of a mountain, breathing the fresh air and feeling the wind on my face. Since that day, I started playing the guitar again, writing songs and performing them for my friends, painting, drawing, writing poetry, and making it a priority to spend time in places where I can connect with a sense of space and freedom. Malka is no longer trapped in a box, she is living and breathing right alongside me.
And then over the past few days I have had a strange sensation that I couldn't put my finger on, a kind of vague sense of dread, that seemed to be coming from Malka. In the last week I have been doing some soul searching, asking myself what I see myself doing with my life in the long term, and the intuitive answers coming to me are big, dramatic, and elaborate: write books about mindfulness, start my own non-profit organization, travel the world. As I wrote in my journal tonight, I asked myself what I'm afraid of. And I suddenly realized that Malka has a deep fear of being put back in the box. These big, bold, creative ideas that go against the grain and put me at the center of attention -- they're bringing up the same kind of self-criticism and shame that put Malka in the box in the first place. As long as I'm just playing guitar in my house and writing poetry, Malka isn't bothering anyone, but when I consider ways to turn my creativity up a notch and put myself out there for all to see -- there is a deep fear that the voices of criticism will be too much and that I'm going to end up putting Malka back in a box for another 18 years.
Living in a box isn't much fun, but coming out isn't easy either.
Have you had an experience of being trapped in a box, or coming out of one? How did you maintain a sense of safety and reassurance as you stepped out into unknown territory?
Please post a comment or email me - I'd love to hear your story.
I'm not alone
I know of others with a box as their home
Light only enters from a crack or a hole
This is not enough for a human to grow
-Lyrics from "Trapped in a box" by No Doubt
There's a part of me who was living in a box for many years. I call her "Malka," meaning "queen" in Hebrew. She's the wild child in me, the part who is creative, silly, artistic, playful, and loves to be the center of attention. This was the part of me that as a child would make up songs and direct my friends in skits that we performed for our parents. In many of my family's early home movies, you can see me dancing, singing, and generally hamming it up in front of the camera. I loved anything with a quality of elaborate theatrics or pageantry. In 3rd grade my friends and I created a secret society for which we wrote something like 14 short songs that we sang at every meeting, including modified lyrics to the national anthem. In my first year of college, my roommate and I would do silly things like paint bruises on our body with make-up and put our arms in slings, then see if we could convince our friends that we had just gotten in a fistfight with each other.
I became re-acquainted with Malka about a year ago, and that's when she told me that she had been living in a box, basically hibernating, for most of my adult life. I don't know exactly how she got there, but I guess there are a lot of contributing factors: fear of not fitting in, self-criticism for not living up to society's expectations for how an adult is supposed to behave, shame from telling myself "No one likes an attention hog."
The day I reconnected with her, it felt like a wall had been lifted, as if I had been living in a tiny closet and now found myself standing on top of a mountain, breathing the fresh air and feeling the wind on my face. Since that day, I started playing the guitar again, writing songs and performing them for my friends, painting, drawing, writing poetry, and making it a priority to spend time in places where I can connect with a sense of space and freedom. Malka is no longer trapped in a box, she is living and breathing right alongside me.
And then over the past few days I have had a strange sensation that I couldn't put my finger on, a kind of vague sense of dread, that seemed to be coming from Malka. In the last week I have been doing some soul searching, asking myself what I see myself doing with my life in the long term, and the intuitive answers coming to me are big, dramatic, and elaborate: write books about mindfulness, start my own non-profit organization, travel the world. As I wrote in my journal tonight, I asked myself what I'm afraid of. And I suddenly realized that Malka has a deep fear of being put back in the box. These big, bold, creative ideas that go against the grain and put me at the center of attention -- they're bringing up the same kind of self-criticism and shame that put Malka in the box in the first place. As long as I'm just playing guitar in my house and writing poetry, Malka isn't bothering anyone, but when I consider ways to turn my creativity up a notch and put myself out there for all to see -- there is a deep fear that the voices of criticism will be too much and that I'm going to end up putting Malka back in a box for another 18 years.
Living in a box isn't much fun, but coming out isn't easy either.
Have you had an experience of being trapped in a box, or coming out of one? How did you maintain a sense of safety and reassurance as you stepped out into unknown territory?
Please post a comment or email me - I'd love to hear your story.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
L'chaim - To Life
In the last few days, I've had a few songs from Fiddler on the Roof running through my head. In particular, these lyrics:
If I were a rich man
Deedle deedle deidle diga diga deedle deidle dum
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum
If I were a wealthy man
I wouldn't have to work hard
Deedle...
If I were a biddy biddy rich
Diga diga deedle deidle man
(or something like that... This is from memory of 10th grade high school musical, in which I played Chava, the 3rd daughter who coincidentally ends up marrying the good-looking non-Jewish dude)
Anyway, here's what this song is prompting me to ask myself: What would I do if I told myself I didn't "have to work hard"? Well, clearly, I would biddy biddy bum, and all day long! Meaning I would play, do what I enjoy, live life the way I want to live it. I would do whatever it is that makes me feel so good it causes me to sing nonsense syllables.
I think this is my new definition of joy: an experience that feels so good it causes me to sing nonsense syllables.
Well, you know what? I may not be a billionaire, but yes, I am a rich man -- so to speak. My life is rich with abundance. I am wealthy with choices. And gosh darn it, I can biddy biddy bum if I want to.
So this is my new quest: How can I fill my life with experiences that make me feel rich in spirit? How can I devote more time and energy to things that bring me to life?
I guess the first question to ask myself is: What do I really enjoy anyway?
The problem is, sometimes I find myself thinking, "I don't know what I like." Somehow I can forget the part of myself that knows with certainty and confidence what I enjoy. I can get so discouraged hearing the jackals in my head (NVC-speak for voices of judgment) saying "You're selfish if you think you can just do what you want... Who do you think you are, a billionaire who can just play all the time?"
Well, jackals, I hear you -- I know you want me to consider other people's needs, to take no more than I need, to maintain some level of safety and not go completely crazy.
But at the same time, my inner "rich man" really needs to be heard. And here is what he wants to declare: It's time to make the most of my time here on Earth. Time to focus on what brings me to life. Time to biddy biddy bum.
So, what makes YOU biddy biddy bum?
As they say in Fiddler: To life -- L'chaim!
If I were a rich man
Deedle deedle deidle diga diga deedle deidle dum
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum
If I were a wealthy man
I wouldn't have to work hard
Deedle...
If I were a biddy biddy rich
Diga diga deedle deidle man
(or something like that... This is from memory of 10th grade high school musical, in which I played Chava, the 3rd daughter who coincidentally ends up marrying the good-looking non-Jewish dude)
Anyway, here's what this song is prompting me to ask myself: What would I do if I told myself I didn't "have to work hard"? Well, clearly, I would biddy biddy bum, and all day long! Meaning I would play, do what I enjoy, live life the way I want to live it. I would do whatever it is that makes me feel so good it causes me to sing nonsense syllables.
I think this is my new definition of joy: an experience that feels so good it causes me to sing nonsense syllables.
Well, you know what? I may not be a billionaire, but yes, I am a rich man -- so to speak. My life is rich with abundance. I am wealthy with choices. And gosh darn it, I can biddy biddy bum if I want to.
So this is my new quest: How can I fill my life with experiences that make me feel rich in spirit? How can I devote more time and energy to things that bring me to life?
I guess the first question to ask myself is: What do I really enjoy anyway?
The problem is, sometimes I find myself thinking, "I don't know what I like." Somehow I can forget the part of myself that knows with certainty and confidence what I enjoy. I can get so discouraged hearing the jackals in my head (NVC-speak for voices of judgment) saying "You're selfish if you think you can just do what you want... Who do you think you are, a billionaire who can just play all the time?"
Well, jackals, I hear you -- I know you want me to consider other people's needs, to take no more than I need, to maintain some level of safety and not go completely crazy.
But at the same time, my inner "rich man" really needs to be heard. And here is what he wants to declare: It's time to make the most of my time here on Earth. Time to focus on what brings me to life. Time to biddy biddy bum.
So, what makes YOU biddy biddy bum?
As they say in Fiddler: To life -- L'chaim!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
To know and love the world
Knowing and loving myself is a long journey, probably THE journey of my life. And it finally dawned on me what makes this work so central to my spiritual development: every time I recognize a new aspect of myself and shine the light of love and compassion on that part of myself, I become capable of feeling love and compassion for this quality in the world.
In other words...
When I love the part of myself that is hard and inflexible - like when I'm not willing to let go of a particular strategy, or when I'm trying to convince someone of my point of view...
...then I can love what is hard and inflexible in the world - like the Earth, or the person who is not able to hear what I am saying
When I love the part of myself that is confused and vulnerable - like when I cry from stress at the end of a long workday, or when I allow myself to be persuaded to do something I don't want to do...
...then I can love what is confused and vulnerable in the world - like the flowers that bloomed too early and died with the second frost, or the child who hits because he doesn't know what else to do with his feelings
When I love the part of myself that is weird and "out there" - like when I blog about my spiritual journey, or when I talk out loud to myself in the car ride home
...then I can love what is weird and "out there" in the world - like the galaxy, or the kid with the tattooed face
When I love the part of myself that is wasteful and hasty - like when I eat at fast food places that use styrofoam containers, or when I spend money on things that only bring me temporary happiness
...then I can love what is wasteful and hasty in the world - like a waterfall, or a corporate leader who works for profits because he doesn't see the value of life beyond material things... maybe doesn't see his own value...
Love means that I know we are all this way, flawed and imperfect and doing the best we know how.
Love means I have hope because I see the beauty of the potential in all things.
Love means I have a choice about what to do next.
Happy Earth Day.
In other words...
When I love the part of myself that is hard and inflexible - like when I'm not willing to let go of a particular strategy, or when I'm trying to convince someone of my point of view...
...then I can love what is hard and inflexible in the world - like the Earth, or the person who is not able to hear what I am saying
When I love the part of myself that is confused and vulnerable - like when I cry from stress at the end of a long workday, or when I allow myself to be persuaded to do something I don't want to do...
...then I can love what is confused and vulnerable in the world - like the flowers that bloomed too early and died with the second frost, or the child who hits because he doesn't know what else to do with his feelings
When I love the part of myself that is weird and "out there" - like when I blog about my spiritual journey, or when I talk out loud to myself in the car ride home
...then I can love what is weird and "out there" in the world - like the galaxy, or the kid with the tattooed face
When I love the part of myself that is wasteful and hasty - like when I eat at fast food places that use styrofoam containers, or when I spend money on things that only bring me temporary happiness
...then I can love what is wasteful and hasty in the world - like a waterfall, or a corporate leader who works for profits because he doesn't see the value of life beyond material things... maybe doesn't see his own value...
Love means that I know we are all this way, flawed and imperfect and doing the best we know how.
Love means I have hope because I see the beauty of the potential in all things.
Love means I have a choice about what to do next.
Happy Earth Day.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Honesty
It can be very, very, very, very, very challenging for me to be honest. That's one of the main reasons I write this blog, to practice honesty and transparency, and to practice sitting with the challenging feelings that come up for me around honesty.
Often after I hit "Publish post", I receive a swell of anxiety, sometimes panic, and usually deep fear. My thoughts go something like this:
"Well, that was a good post. Was it good? Oh crap, it's terrible, isn't it? Let me read it again. No, I like it, it's just what I want to say. But no one else is going to like it. Oh crap, people are going to hate it. Surely a few people are going to drop me from their facebook friends list after this one."
And then I sometimes go into habitual self-soothing, like eating a bowl of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. What can I say, it can take the edge off.
But at some point I finally remember to be present, and I sit with the fear and recognize my ongoing and continual need for reassurance and love. And then I say to myself:
"Maybe some people will like it and maybe no one will. There's no way to know and it doesn't matter. I've spoken my truth, and that makes me happy. I'm practicing telling the truth. This is my mission. I'm doing what I set out to do. And I am so grateful that I am taking the time to do this practice."
Lately I've been recognizing that I have a need to expand my honesty practice in my relationships. In some relationships I seem to have gotten the hang of it - speaking my truth while being compassionate to the other person - and in other relationships I seem to be avoiding being honest like the plague. I guess at issue is whether I have a sense of trust that I can be ok with whatever response comes back to me from the other person. If I anticipate that my honesty - no matter how gently and compassionately expressed - will be met with anger or hostility, I get that familiar panic and deep fear reaction. There's a part of me that is very simply terrified of "being dropped from the friends list."
So, how do I give myself the reassurance and love that I need? How about remembering this:
"Maybe this person will be fine with my honesty and maybe she will not like what I have to say. There's no way to know and it doesn't matter. I've spoken my truth, and that makes me happy."
And perhaps having a bowl of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream nearby wouldn't hurt.
Often after I hit "Publish post", I receive a swell of anxiety, sometimes panic, and usually deep fear. My thoughts go something like this:
"Well, that was a good post. Was it good? Oh crap, it's terrible, isn't it? Let me read it again. No, I like it, it's just what I want to say. But no one else is going to like it. Oh crap, people are going to hate it. Surely a few people are going to drop me from their facebook friends list after this one."
And then I sometimes go into habitual self-soothing, like eating a bowl of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. What can I say, it can take the edge off.
But at some point I finally remember to be present, and I sit with the fear and recognize my ongoing and continual need for reassurance and love. And then I say to myself:
"Maybe some people will like it and maybe no one will. There's no way to know and it doesn't matter. I've spoken my truth, and that makes me happy. I'm practicing telling the truth. This is my mission. I'm doing what I set out to do. And I am so grateful that I am taking the time to do this practice."
Lately I've been recognizing that I have a need to expand my honesty practice in my relationships. In some relationships I seem to have gotten the hang of it - speaking my truth while being compassionate to the other person - and in other relationships I seem to be avoiding being honest like the plague. I guess at issue is whether I have a sense of trust that I can be ok with whatever response comes back to me from the other person. If I anticipate that my honesty - no matter how gently and compassionately expressed - will be met with anger or hostility, I get that familiar panic and deep fear reaction. There's a part of me that is very simply terrified of "being dropped from the friends list."
So, how do I give myself the reassurance and love that I need? How about remembering this:
"Maybe this person will be fine with my honesty and maybe she will not like what I have to say. There's no way to know and it doesn't matter. I've spoken my truth, and that makes me happy."
And perhaps having a bowl of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream nearby wouldn't hurt.
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