We have nurtured and bred within ourselves a penchant for catastrophic thinking. We're really good at worst-case-scenario. And perhaps at one point that was necessary, for an instant or two in our lives when it was best to be prepared. But when did it become a habit? When did expecting the worst become the reality?
And here's the worst (ha!) of it--we begin to believe that not only will the assumed horrors happen, but that we are deserving of them. We've learned to forget that good things can happen for us, that we are the kinds of beings who experience luck and goodwill and a universal generosity of spirit.
Hard to believe, isn't it? Well, why not? What have we to lose but a disturbing dependence on darkness?
Change is hard--there's a deep thought for you, petals. And I'm with you--I'm 100% happy (okay...92.2% happy) keeping to my routine, changing nothing. But the hard truth is, if we don't change, if we don't sit and breathe through the discomfort of transition, then we'll never experience the beautiful expansion, the broader worldview that acres and acres of new space provides.
We move or we die--that's a brutal truth, but it's also a marvelous opportunity. If it helps, change is inevitable--it's out of our hands. It's one of the (many, many) things over which we have no control--and there's a lovely freedom in that. Embrace it, trudge through it, but no matter how you approach change, be grateful for it--it proves you're still alive, still sparking enough to generate your own heat, your own evolution.
Because, you know, it's a battle out here for most of us most days. It shouldn't be. It doesn't have to be, but that's where we are. So we survive (not hyperbole) any way we can. We don't have to answer for these comforts. We only have to answer to ourselves, our needs, and to stop apologizing--particularly to ourselves.
We can't go back. Goddess help us, we can't. I think the hardest thing about being an adult is coming to terms with that-- coming to terms with the fact that, yes, you can do *anything* you choose, but you have to do it from where you stand. There is no room for regret, for 'if only,' for 'otherwise.'
Let those thieves in the door and before you know it, you'll be left empty-handed without time left for anything else.
Boundaries are vitally important, and getting intimate with where yours fall is part of this ongoing process of self-care and self-discovery.
But if you're anything like me, I suspect that some of those boundaries have morphed from privacy fence to prison wall. And perhaps you, like me, have noticed your perimeter getting smaller and smaller and that you've begun to gaze at your walls rather than approach them.
And it begs the question (for me, at least)--where did that intrepid wall-climber go? Where did the rebel disappear to? When did the tester of limits, the darer of the unknown, vanish? And how long will I keep myself prisoner before I realize that this is no longer self-preservation, but habit?
So maybe it's time to gain a little ground, to get a little perspective. Not from the top, necessarily, not right away. But a peek over the edge? The view from a convenient tree limb? I think that might be a very good start.
Eventually, we've done enough work. Eventually, self-reflection mutates from worthwhile growth activity to guilt-induced habit, mourning everything we're not--and, perversely, everything we are.
Part of it, I think, is our fix-it, self-help society, and part of it stems from really, truly wanting to be the best version of ourselves possible.
But, you know, we've done the work. And despite the work, we'll slip, we'll do rotten things, and we'll regret them. We'll apologize and we'll keep trying. But those moments aren't the norm. Apologizing isn't the norm, nor is it necessary.
We're good people. We're hard workers, but we don't need to keep demonstrating that at every turn. We've done enough. Take us as we are--lovely and flawed and very much deserving of a rest.
We are so lovely, and what's heartbreaking is how rarely we realize it. Loveliness has nothing to do with age or genetics, products or clothing, size or stature. We are nature and essence, mineral and bone, color and light. We change with time, moment to minute to decade, and that transition is poetry, artistry. And if we can live the transitions? Actually reside in our impermanence, celebrating its ephemerality, well, we are unstoppable blazes of pure energy, and there is nothing more beautiful or more inspiring, than the awareness of abundance, and the possibility of constant creation and re-creation.
We have so much power--and that's both wonderful and dangerous. Wonderful when we remember that positivity and faith are our birthright--our default mode before we were taught otherwise by the hard edges of the world. Dangerous when we let the dents from those hard edges cripple us, trip us up, determine the way we will, from here on out, walk in this world.
For today, let us skip the banged-up middle bits of our journey here and remember when magic existed around every corner--familiar or no--in every color, in every storm, in every sunrise, in every nightfall. Let us remember there was a time when we weren't afraid, when we had a cavalry of angels, a field of fairies, a legion of guides at our service, a time when we were on a first-name basis with hope and well-acquainted with grace.
So my one-week hiatus became two because sometimes we need to be a little bit kinder to ourselves than necessary. (Wait. Sometimes?? See how conditioned we are? ALWAYS. We ALWAYS need to be a little kinder to ourselves).
Anyway, sometimes we just need time to rest. Sometimes we just need time to remember that even at our loneliest, even at our lowest, we are not alone, even when physically alone. The ones we love, have loved, will love surround us whether we know it or not, whether they're still on this plane or not.
So we come back. We always come back, and we're stronger and more aware, even if we feel foggier, still exhausted, still unsure.
We are surrounded by love--especially when we least believe it.
And yet, here you are. Despite (or, perhaps, because of) your plans, you're standing where you never thought you would. Whether that moment is now or past, we've all had it--the 'how on earth did I get here?' moment, the 'this isn't where I'm supposed to be' moment. We think there's something wrong with us, but what that's only our perception? What if the only thing 'wrong' is that we're so all-fired attached to some goal, some assumption we've created.
I always think of that moment in Reality Bites when Winona Ryder's character says, "I was really going to be something by the age of 23." And Ethan Hawke, in all his Gen X wisdom, replies, "Honey, the only thing you have to be by the age of 23 is yourself." That first bit? It always stuck with me--and I think it has to this day. I was really going to be something by now. Really. And somehow, over the years, I've conveniently forgotten the reply, the counter, the wisdom--amazing really, since I had such an all-out crush on Troy Dyer...