I think we confuse the two, stillness and stagnation. I think we get to a point where we're so afraid of choice, we choose not to make any. But that choice, or non-choice, is a catalyst from which a multitude of unasked-for, unapproved choices will be made.
At least by making decisions, we can begin to exert some control over our lives again. Even if they end up not being what we want, we've begun empowering ourselves with our own faith and decided--made the choice--to trust ourselves again. And, over time, that renewed trust will not, cannot, lead us astray.
Most of the time I don't think we realize how watchful we are, how much energy is spent on vigilance. It's the small things that cue us in--the random headache, the tightness in our shoulders, our arms wrapped tightly around ourselves, a vague humming in our ears after a long day.
We never let our guard down because we refuse to remember that it's all unfolding as it should. We refuse to relinquish control; we refuse to have faith in something outside of ourselves. Sad, really, how isolated we become, and how much of that isolation is of our own doing.
Never apologize for what you love, for what you return to time and time again, for your patterns, the habits that make you feel safe. Take all the comfort you need in this world and, when that habit, when that pattern stops serving you? Then you'll release it. You'll have help. The universe moves in its own time, but always, I have to believe, for our highest good.
All we need is enough trust to get out of our own way in the meantime.
You can tell your story in any way that feels true to you. And if nothing feels true? Tell it in a way that makes you the hero of your own life--stronger, braver, cleverer than you give yourself credit for. There is magic here, there must be. There is so much power in words and so much destruction in the way we talk to ourselves.
Surely we owe these sweet bodies the benefit of the doubt.
Ever since I was a little kid, I always remember thinking I was missing out, that I was making the wrong decision. Or, more accurately, no matter *what* choice I were to make, the other would have been better/smarter/happier. Maybe it's because I don't know myself as well as I think? Or perhaps it's because I have no faith in my own endurance, ability, or capacity for newness.
And perhaps that distrust of self is at the root of all anxiety, all misery, and every sleepless night.
I don't really want to talk about my struggles. But I really don't want to talk about my joys, either. Really, I just don't want to talk. I only want to sit here in the sweet silence of this sweet company and give all my attention to being content here, now.
Perhaps that strikes you as a waste of energy, focusing it all on remaining content in the moment. But you know, I imagine it's how a kite feels the first fifty times it's launched, looking down and checking, again and again, to see if its string is still secure, eventually learning that yes, it is safe to be happy here now, to trust the currents here now.
Let's try a little experiment, shall we? Here's my challenge to myself (and join, if you'd like): for today, I will wholeheartedly believe in trust. I will wholeheartedly believe that everything is unfolding for my higher good and that the answers will arrive (have been arriving) when I need them and in a form that I will understand.
You see, I have this distinct inkling that I've been swatting away the answers patiently lobbed to me, so sunk have I been in my own defeat, in my own fear, in my own self-pity, that I have mistaken them for one more thing I had no space, no strength to take on.
But if I drop all this other junk--all this fear, all this worry--then surely there's space and breath for something as light and strong as trust?
(Thank you to my dear friend, Will C. who sent me this: "Worry is carrying tomorrow's fear with today's strength." Love, love to you.)