Yesterday I had a dangerous thought: maybe things aren't as dire as we make them out to be. I'm not talking head-in-the-sand-current-events sort of avoidance, but deep in this sweet body-brain-spirit knowing. We know our minds take us hostage--indeed, we're good and brainwashed by the critical captors who long took over the broadcast of our inner monologue. Sometimes we can shake them off, but they always drag us (only somewhat unwillingly) back into that stuffy, windowless room.
So why do we believe everything they say? It's the cult of the critical, the catastrophic, and we've laced ourselves tightly into the fold--so much so that to extricate ourselves has become painful--ripping off the bandaid to the thousandth power painful. But if we know that--if we know we're more or less willing captives of catastrophic thinking, can we begin to believe, even just for a moment or two, that everything we hear in our brains isn't necessarily true?
Can we afford that small slip of hope? That small chink letting in light from the outside? And can we focus on it, gently widening it every day until, at last, we have a window? And can we then stand up and notice we were never tied down in the first place?