Remember--it's just a day, neither good nor bad, but here and sacred and worthy of your attention, no matter what is (or isn't) on your to-do list.
We have to unlearn our negativity, our dread, our anxiety and replace it with wonder--with force, if necessary. Because it is wonderful--even if it hurts you to say it because of circumstance, say it anyway. Say it until you can pretend to believe it and then say it until it means nothing and then say it and say it and say it until it means everything.
I don't think we need to hold on to relief, to hold on to contentment when we come across it. As much as we'd like to, I think it's pretty clear from collective experience that it just doesn't work.
No, it's almost like a shift in the light, a scene that stops you in your tracks because it's suddenly illuminated. You're grateful for it. but too busy being struck by the unexpected revealing that it never occurs to you to want to hold onto it, to want anything for that matter. Instead, the light shifts, and you move on, lighter indeed for the chance revealing.
I think it's impossible to be kinder to others without being kinder to ourselves first. And I think it's all-out impossible to be kind to ourselves when we've lost our sense of magic, of wonder, in the world.
I think it's natural for wonder to go on hiatus, at least in the so-called modern age. I think we've anesthetized ourselves to it by protecting ourselves in a spongy, poisonous layer of cynicism or numbing ourselves so thoroughly, we wouldn't find wonder in if it rode up on a unicorn and started quoting Shakespeare to us.
So, how to remedy that? I don't know. Start small. Tell yourself you're allowed to be happy, that happiness isn't a shirking of responsibility. Tell yourself it's okay to do or say the wrong thing because, man, we try so very hard. And trying that hard is bound to result in a few mistakes and misunderstandings along the way.
We can have bad days, bad weeks, but even within those stretches of time we (often unfairly) paint with the same brush, there are moments of wonder. There are moments of sheer gratefulness in a surprising kindness, an unexpected coincidence, or a fortuitous turn in the weather.
Despite the heavy weight we now too often carry, it is occasionally lifted from our shoulders by wonder. And thank the goddess for it--it is thorough wonder that we remember to hope.
Our lives were never supposed to be anything dictated or decreed in some transitory cumulus ephemera somewhere overhead. I've finally come to the conclusion that the gods, the spirits, the guides, our own higher-planed selves are not that cruel, not that secretive, not that bored. This isn't a test, it's a celebration.
Think of it this way--imagine you're a parent of a child young enough to have an easy belief in wonder, but old enough to be surprised by it. Imagine, as this caretaker, setting in motion a day of such surprises, a day of unfolding wonder. Imagine the anticipation of joy you'd have as this parent, this guardian, watching your young being discovering joy.
That's what I've finally realized our lives are--loosely plotted days of unfolding wonder. We were never set up to fail, to take the wrong path , to miss our chance, to suffer under the burden of ancestral karma. On the contrary--we were taught that fear, that trepidation by beings who have peered so long into scarc...
This will sound crazy, but whatever. We know each other well enough at this point. When I was a kiddo--young, like 5-8ish--I used to hear voices. Not voices-in-my-head voices, but voices in the woods. We lived in Rhode Island, and behind our house stood an enormity of woods, or so it seemed; I loved going off by myself, pretending I was making potions and medicines from the leaves, flowers, and berries I foraged there.
Two conditions necessitated the voices; one, I had to be alone and in the woods or two, I had to be alone and just drifting off to sleep. I have absolutely no idea what they were saying; they were whispers, murmurs from an overheard party downstairs when you were supposed to be fast asleep upstairs--that sort of thing.
All I know was that I found comfort in it, inclusion. I didn't try to intrude on the conversations, and then one day, they were gone. You see, I'd grown up enough to 'know better,' despite the fact that I never told anyone about them, and ev...
The beautiful thing about the simple belief that you are depth is that, by definition (my definition), there is nothing you cannot access. Perhaps you need to train your breath, your skin for the change in temperature, your mind for the temporary absence of light, but it can all be done, easily, a minute, a second at a time.
I like to think, when I'm lost in the world (familiar territory or no), that I've got the DNA echo of the humans who survived, generation after generation; I've got the echo of stars in my cells, in my blood, and that a whole celestial orchestra had to play and to crash together for even a chance at this life, at solving this (whatever) particular dilemma, time constraint, complication.
Put that way, even the nuttiest moment transcends weariness into something like honor.
So, when I first designed this Satya, all of ten minutes ago (which is how I roll, in general; it works--most of the time...), I wanted to define this relationship-to-self idea as "surprising the pants off of one's self on a DAILY basis." Then I thought, well, no. That's too much, surely.
But, what if it's not? I mean, we're not talking a "happy birthday, here's Matthew McConaughey shirtless on a unicorn" caliber affair here. We're talking a "getting out of bed and WANTING to go forward with your day" type of thing. That still surprises the hell out of me when it happens--and, really, that happens more or less on a daily basis these days, so, well, there it is. Relationship defined and accomplished.
Then add liking what you see in the mirror--that's a hell of a surprise. Or being kind to a stranger without premeditation or forethought. Boom, done.
So, I'm not going to go back and amend the meme, but I'll define it here...