I've come to the decision that I am in need of a Satya sabbatical. I've found myself struggling for inspiration lately, and I have a distinct feeling my life is going to be taking some turns as I reexamine and reevaluate in the new year. I will be back, but this space will be evolving in the meantime.
I'm so grateful for this community--I can't wait to see where we'll go next.
This is another post for my fellow princess-and-the-pea folks. I'm told that sensitivity is a gift, that it's what allows me to do what I do. But, you know, I have to ask, at what price? Is it worth the guard and the shields, the extra care with EVERYTHING (food, fragrances, cosmetics, household goods, organics), not to mention the cost (monetary, mental, and physical).
I don't know, but I'll be honest--I wish my buffer, my range, were a bit larger. I wish one indulgence didn't result in days of recovery. I wish I had a little more resilience against the electronic and chemical nature of our modern world. I wish I didn't have to worry so much about what a new innovation will mean for my system. I wish I didn't have to find and keep so many practitioners and experts and appointments on speed dial.
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.
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.
Imagine if we could plot our lives like we plot our road trips, our commute to work, our drive home with a stop at the grocery store/bank/post office.
Well, you know what? I think we do. I think we do, and I think we're a danger to ourselves and others because we don't realize we're doing it. We don't realize (or remember) that every thought we have, every intention, every conversation we hold with ourselves is drawing a line on the map, and it's a map we're following faithfully, whether we know it or not.
Here we are, one eye glued to the route, and one turned stubbornly inward with nothing left to watch where we're going, to look at the scenery, to see what we're missing--or avoiding. We have no idea where the trip-enhancing turn-offs are (WORLD'S BIGGEST BALL OF STRING HERE!), no idea where the breathtaking scenic overlook is because we miss every sign. Or almost every sign. Enough, anyway, to realize how rarely we look up, how rarely we stop, how rarely we rest our gaze on the...
We all have a threshold--some of us are just able to encompass more acreage than others, covering more ground during our daytime hours. But it's not a race, even if most days it feels like one.
We have remarkable brains and firm boundaries--both are here for our protection, and when we embrace their daily limits, they serve us well, inspiring us to create, to make connections, to embrace color and change and dynamism.
But when we push too hard, we begin to crack--and that fault-line, once opened, will not only swallow us whole, but everyone else in the pull of our orbit.
It's probably our most valuable natural resource, sleep. And I tell you, I will bend the rest of my schedule so that I have the best chance at enough of it--and I have no problem saying no. I know what life looks like without enough sleep, and it is dire. So dire, I don't even want to talk about it. When the ability to sleep is taken away? There is nothing in the world we (most of us) wouldn't trade to get it back.
So if you sleep well, cherish that--you are rich, petals. And if you don't? Brothers and sisters, I hear you. Let's all just be a little kinder than necessary--fragility is more widespread than we could ever imagine.
Here's what I've forgotten: to trust my mind to stillness. Instead, I've been fighting like mad under the tempting assumption that to let the mind still would mean that there's nothing to stop the avalanche of dread, worry, anxiety, and worst-case-scenarios from coming toppling down from where they've been shoved and shoved again.
But that, doves, is the crux of the illness--this belief that it takes all of our brute strength to ward off the messy onslaught of our minds. And the ridiculously unfair and cruel thing about worry, about anxiety is that the more we struggle, the more it manifests. Think of it this way: a glass of water on your desk, when left alone, will not rush up and topple the glass, soaking everything in its path. Of course not--that's not the nature of water. It takes a force--the wind, the moon, the tides, gravity--to inspire movement, gentle or violent.
We are our own act of god--we provide our own force by struggling to hold everything back. But her...
I've written before about how we're allowed to ask for help or to seek expertise when necessary, and that to do so is not overreacting or asking too much. I was thinking about this yesterday at the dentist's office, during an appointment to adjust a retainer-type thing I wear at night. I wanted it fixed, obviously, but I was keenly aware that all the micro-adjustments, the fittings and re-fittings, were taking up so much time. That *I* was taking up so much time.
I felt like the princess and the pea--a story I related to enormously as a kid and still do--as a dear friend and teacher pointed out, we can't help our sensitivity, and we can't cast the label "burden" on ourselves for asking for what we need.
And besides, I wasn't getting that vibe from my dentist--it was entirely internal. He wanted the darn thing to fit as much as I did, and that's his (chosen) profession. It was funny, though, as if reading my mind, he said, "It's a bit like the princess and the pea, isn't it?" And I...
I suppose it's about the old "what cannot be cured must be endured." So the question becomes, not why, but how? How do we find ways not only to keep going, but to find life and light and joy around those things we cannot change. Or, maybe (maybe!), cannot change yet.
It's that *yet* I need to hang onto. Because "yet" hints at hope, hints at a time when maybe endurance won't be quite so necessary, when we can relax into what is without the heavy burden of what if and if only.