"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
~ Eleanor Roosevelt It's easy to feel a victim to experiences and people. Part of the vernacular in our culture is that feelings can be hurt. In other words, you say something to me and it has the power to hurt me. Just like that my power is taken away and you control how I feel. But Life and Nature haven't actually been so unkind as to leave us vulnerable in this way. When we are called "Ugly", "Stupid", "Fat" or any other, the words represent ideas that are only thoughts. And we're constructed so that no one gets to think for us. Let's teach each other how to be unafraid, how to see these thoughts as swords not stabbed into us by anyone or any experience, but laid before us. The damage they do is left to our own hands. We can know and value the truth of who we are enough to handle the swords wisely, enough to let them be. And from this place of authenticity, affective action can be taken - action in service to a greater good. No point in learning how to bully the bully, how to war against war, striving to win by having another lose, after all - not if we're looking for true change. Lots of love, Jennifer
0 Comments
I watched a documentary on Woody Allen recently and loved it. I aspire to his lack of interest in reviews (other people's assessments) and his acceptance of the process of working, with all the uncertainty of outcome. He accepts that there are going to be misses.
I've been drawing and writing for many years and I still find it difficult to look with ease upon those pieces that don't float my boat - to accept that at the time, I made a true effort to connect to something important to me and express it well. But watching Woody Allen, I realize my desire to work is stronger than my demand that each piece be a "great" one. I want them all to be wonderful to me, of course, but I think, what is more wonderful is the feeling of being free to create - whatever. It's about learning to honor the desire to create over the fear of getting it "wrong". Here's to whatever you create today. Much love, Jennifer Years ago, my husband and I were looking to buy a house and our real estate agent took us to one that made a big impression.
The first thing we noticed was the previous owner's decision to lay concrete over the front lawn. Inside were similar decisions: walls erected to create more tiny rooms, the hallway some how contorted and reconfigured. Like the former lawn - every bit of the space had been wrestled with and controlled. That house is what happens when we rely heavily on head thoughts only. The head says, "More rooms will be better!" or "This way no yard work!". But the heart balances. The heart is aware of the inherent integrity of the little house, of people, of situations. It sees, it knows, the intelligence in the original blueprint of every experience. Untethered from the heart, the brain runs a muck, creating more problems through its solutions. In collaboration with the heart, the head produces thoughts in service to the intelligence of the blueprint and expansion occurs. Everything works best with love. When I was six, I started learning to ride a bicycle. I loved the red bike with training wheels but also feared its control was beyond me. I appreciated the training wheels and being able to rely on them while I checked out, somewhat clueless as to my role in maintaining my own balance.
Though feeling out of balance is uncomfortable, after a while, training wheels are left behind, regardless. There's no logical reason really; it would be simpler to ride around on something that doesn't require learning how to balance. But the drive for balance sustained from within, without dependence on externals, is great. Despite all the conveniences we create, we still challenge ourselves to find greater power and capability inside of us. Balance requires tuning in. And because we are hard wired to lead our own lives, follow our own way (despite the social drive for conformity), we know we must pay attention to where center is within us. And it is this listening to, getting in step with , and awareness, that in the end, allows us truest expression and genuine freedom. Many years ago I was babysitting for a little girl who liked to watch Disney classics but with the remote in hand so she could fast forward through troubling things that might come up.
I hadn't realized there was much in a Disney animated feature that could be so emotionally challenging. And I was of two minds about this l practice: one - that it was wise of her to skip over that which she didn't wish to see, the other - that it would best suit her to learn how to cope with things that might trigger upset in her. When we are faced with something in our experience that doesn't stimulate good feelings, avoidance becomes the same as focusing on the thing. Energy spent trying to not look at something is almost identical to energy spent looking at it and being miserable. But that little girl had some insight. She recognized what wasn't working for her and moved on. When I am down, there is an inclination in me to await a savior - of sorts. I keep myself from feeling good until the arrival of proof from outside that I have enough, am good enough, or am safe enough. I think, "When I see this. .. . then I can feel good." Until then, it's as though I have taught myself that I don't deserve to be happy. But like that girl - what I choose to focus on is my choice, which includes how I choose to see things. Choosing something different does not have to mean avoidance. In choice we look at the possibilities before us and decide which best serves us. Avoidance means turning away in fear. How good to recognize what's not working for us and allow ourselves to move on. This is the best kind of fast forwarding. When I was a kid, my mother had the habit of politely correcting my grammar, not by directly pointing out my error, but by repeating what I'd said - only in a corrected form. Here's an example. When I said to her, "I'm going to grow my hair out," she very sweetly stated, "Oh, you're going to let your hair grow out."
Strange thing - those type of corrections never bothered me, maybe because they weren't chronic, maybe because I found her technique sort of funny. (It seemed like she was hoping to correct me without me noticing.) Or maybe they didn't bother me because I hadn't linked grammar usage with my sense of self. In my life, I have been corrected from time to time with varying degrees of receptivity on my part. For instance, it is not uncommon for me to get the lyrics to a song wrong and happen to do so in front of my husband. . . who happens to have a passion for getting lyrics right. But during those corrections, I find myself embarrassed and grumpy rather than interested or grateful. What is it that determines when my ego is going to have a conniption and when it is willing to step aside for new information ? I've often justified my reactions with silent blame of the other party's approach or attitude - doing the ol' switch-aroo in which their egos are the problem, not mine. But what I really want is different. How great it would be to be completely free of the "What This Means About Me" story and be able to just listen and hear what is being given. This is a different paradigm: instead of being the one who should know, being the one who is fine with not knowing and loves discovering. Then correction stops being interpreted as "There's something wrong with me" (or maybe even "There's something wrong with YOU for correcting me!"), conniptions fall aside, and life - well, life is allowed to return to its inherent state of integrity, a collaborative game of learning for all. And there's no ego pride in being "right", no shame in being "wrong". Years ago, when my youngest son was three, his preschool teacher (aptly named Angelica) let us know she felt he needed extra help, extra care. He wasn't behaving as the other children were.
It's a sobering moment for a parent. But Angelica was so loving and interested in finding the best way for him, we followed her lead. A lead that took us to testing, diagnosis, labels, IEP's (Independent Educational Programs - through the public school system), a lot of talk, and assessments and to my mind, much misunderstanding of him. To me he was wonderful - not because he behaved and cooperated as he was supposed to, necessarily. His perfection was his beautiful intelligence, the kind of intelligence that shines through the eyes of us all. Let's call it divine intelligence - in order to delineate it from the academic or intellectual kind - the intelligence that moves us (in a meaningful way through life) and is moving. We followed the guidance given but debated the reality of something being wrong with him . He went to a special preschool and then to a "blended" kindergarten where the children were both typically developing and not so typical. I was often conflicted about special programs and always anticipated him integrating into "normal" classrooms. But kindergarten was a rough year. There were so many times that if I had just slowed down, slowed down my thinking, my breathing, and listened to who I am, I would have admitted the environment was all wrong for him. I didn't feel equipped to face the unknown, to support him in finding his own way. Looking back, I see I was given many loud and obvious cues as to the journey I needed to take to be in alignment with my own thoughts and understanding of my son. But I was too frightened to take it. I resisted the journey. So I remained conflicted and so has he. Years later, I see the progress (and there is a lot) and I see the struggle he still carries, and I finally can get quiet enough to feel my willingness to take ANY journey that might best serve him. And it leads me to wonder if perhaps there are other journeys I am resisting - journeys summoned by my knowing, my own truth, that call my name and won't stop. Is there a journey you are resisting? Much Love, Jennifer I have told myself a story for years that goes like this: I need to try hard - you know, so I'll be more likely to get it right and I'll be more right. From this story, I made up, come behavioral and emotional repercussions. One repercussion is I sometimes work with a sense of strain - feeling like I'm trying and trying rather than just doing. I may fixate on aspects of my work, my mind in overdrive. This leads to exhaustion and in turn, not working, or going so slowly (perhaps to try to counterbalance all the mental effort), it all becomes unpleasant. To do the things I most want to do in life, I must DO them but maybe I don't need to make an effort. The difference between doing and making an effort is that the latter involves mental exertion, a summoning of force and will, whereas the former does not have to. Several years ago, I saw a profile of a baby girl born with another head. This head was part of a twin that never took full form. Though the other head had independent feeling and thought, its existence was parasitic to the girl's system and over time would kill her. When Doing and Effort get accidentally linked, Effort becomes Doing's extra head - a superfluous mental process that drains energy. The idea of Effort is a story of Trying Hard - completely unnecessary to actual Doing. Effort is a pull on our natural balanced system, which already intrinsically knows when to begin, when to do, when to rest, and when to let go. If we allow it. I have always operated from the premise that the more effort, the increased chance of a better result. But now it seems I can allow myself to do things, or I can make myself do things. And one feels like freedom, the other - jail. In the ill-conceived conjoining of Doing and Effort, Effort appears necessary but is actually not. Because we are already right as we are - whole and complete - built to move, made to create and express, in this light Doing becomes synonymous with Being - and absolutely no effort is needed for that. My son has a proclivity for scaring himself. He has a very active mind that sometimes seems like it runs him rather than the other way around. His internal world is so vivid that it's easy for him to forget his thoughts are just thoughts. And if those thoughts are scary, understandably, he feels scared.
Recently I told him that a frightening thought is like a bee. When it comes by and we react strongly and try to swat it away, it's more likely to sting - and we're probably going to feel like a victim. But if we hold still, it's likely to simply move on. When our minds are overly active, they're inclined to inspire fearful feelings. And that's what his does. I once saw a video of a woman who'd been diagnosed as schizophrenic and bi-polar. She described how, after becoming aware of her power to settle herself internally, she found that when she stilled her mind, "there was no mental illness". This served as a profound insight for her in her healing. Fear, worry, and anxiety are byproducts of an overly active mind. And an overly active mind exists because of the attention we pour into our thoughts. Our attention is what keeps those thoughts alive and multiplying. We always have thoughts and we can either let them go by or we can grab hold of them with our attention. When we do the latter - it's easy to forget it was we who grabbed them rather than the other way around. But there is more to this story. In life, we hold still so the bee flies away, but we also hold still so the butterfly might stay or even come to us. The same thing occurs internally: inspiration, transformation, love, and beauty tend to come when we allow ourselves to be still. It's not difficult to do, but it does require a decision. Lately, I've been paying closer attention to the things I do and say and their impact. It's been sobering. Though I do not have a personality, in general, that tends to light fires, like many - I have a reactive side. What I've noticed is: reacting doesn't work in service to what I really want. Responding does, but responding requires taking a moment to take in what's transpired.
Here's an example: My 13 year-old son went out in the snow the other day, while I was in my bedroom exercising. Soon, he started throwing snowballs at the sliding glass door of my room. Agitated and jarred, a reactive impulse arose. But my son tends to push back fast and I didn't want war. As an experiment, I said nothing and waited. Things seemed to calm down. But then he started again, returning to the door, snowball in hand, making a ruckus. I took a beat and spoke to him through the sliding door, pointing out that he might damage the glass. He balked: the snow was too soft. Then I did something my reactive habit would never have done: I agreed. There was nothing screwy with his perspective; it made sense. Then I shared mine - packed together the snow wasn't as soft- and there was a chance it might crack the glass ( keeping my claim moderate, rather than exaggerating and making the situation seem bigger than it was). All I wanted was peace and for the glass to be left alone. If I told him to stop doing what he was doing, I would be making what he was doing wrong. And the ego always takes that as attack. I'd be starting a war. And there was no need to make him wrong. Peace came when I acknowledged the truth - not an overblown, reactive version. Peace came when I made no effort to make myself the RIGHT one. In this way, I answered the situation with balance (all perspectives being equal) and there was nothing for him to fight against. I had let go of being right and so did he. |
From the Inside
|