What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
Friday Chicken #105: raunchy pirate goo
Because it’s Friday AGAIN. And because traditions are important. In which I cover the good stuff and the hard stuff in my week, trying for the non-preachy, non-annoying side of self-reflection.
And you get to join in if you feel like it.
Oh, sneaky sneaky Friday.
Acting like it’s no big deal that it’s Wednesday and then zoom showing up uninvited.
I’m fairly certain that Thursday didn’t happen.
But either way. Sneakiness is afoot. Clearly.
The hard stuff
So tired.
Still.
This week was supposed to be about recovery from teaching at the Writer’s Retreat all last week.
Recovery and rest and reintegration and other transition-ey things that begin with R.
And that happened, yes. But I was just wiped out for all of it. Really low energy.
Combine that with high altitude, high heat and wanting to do things but not being able to, and you have one cranky mouse me.
In a funk..
The usual coming-off-of-retreat down.
Missing the fun. Missing being the amazonian goddess queen.
Just in the blahness of being uninteresting and uninterested.
Also, a sidenote for my personal edition of the Book of You: Knowing that this is normal? Doesn’t always help.
Wanting rest.
And realizing that even though all I want to do is rest, I don’t even really know how.
This is a rather depressing realization for someone who has been teaching yoga, destuckification, meditation, non-cheesy self-inquiry things for the last six years.
So I had to re-learn it.
The usual things (naps and shavasana and slowness) were not working.
So I had to talk to the me-who-knows-about-rest and learn things. And take a lot of baths. Which was actually kind of nice.
No Dance of Shiva.
After a week of using Shiva Nata (or what I call Shivanauttery) to solve all my problems …
Doing it on the roof, in the bedroom, outside, inside, everywhere …
It just didn’t happen this week. And that sucks.
Other things happened. Like baths and walks and scribblings.
But not Shiva-ing it up. And that makes everything more sluggish and slow. And I know that. And it still didn’t happen.
The good stuff
Bananas!
I do love them.
And I never get to eat bananas because my gentleman friend and I both have very passionate thoughts about eating local food. It’s one of those on-our-dammit-list things.
It’s something we’ve done for several years, our only exceptions being salt, a couple spices and (for him) coffee. And a very occasional indulgence in the form of Colorado whiskey. Mmmm.
Anyway, being on holiday somewhere warm and beautiful is like permission to loosen up (or maybe it’s just the wenn schon denn schon effect.
But bananas. So lovely. Thank you, bananas!
Green chile tempura.
The yummiest meal EVER at Hiro Hobo in Arroyo Seco. New Mexican Japanese! Green chile + cilantro tempura! Edamame hummus! Extreme deliciousness!
Thanks to David for the recommendation.
And, in order to not make the Friday Chicken just a report of me obsessing over foods, I will stop here.
And yes, I ate green chile stew seven days in a row. And yes, it was that great.
Getting out of my funk!
I’m pretty sure it was because of all the goo-slathering.
Or possibly the nap I took on Wednesday.
Goo-slathering. Finally.
It only took me three and a half days to get over my phone phobia (and yes, there is a hilarious and very wrong blog post in there) to set this up.
But I did it and set up an appointment for delicious, decadent goo-slathering* at a lovely spa.
* Goo-slathering = body treatment where they smear oils on you. See my Very Personal Ad where I asked for help with this.
And it was incredible.
After all that monster-talk about how it wasn’t really necessary and I really should be writing instead, the goo-slathering ended up being The Thing That Got Me Out of The Post-Retreat Funk of Doom.
Take that. And please remind me the next time I go into conniptions over whether or not to goo-slather. Goo-slathering can (sometimes, apparently) move me out of the Funk of Doom. Noted.
New Mexico.
I still love it.
So much pretty.
Being wrong.
Realizing that I miscalculated and had another whole day here when I thought it was time to go.
Great stuff I read.
Jenny the incomparable wonderful Bloggess, saying this:
“Popular blogger is an oxymoron. It’s like being the sexiest National Scrabble Champion or the best local Newt Gingrich impersonator.”
So true. And now I know what to say the next time someone calls me one.
And I don’t think you can call this “great stuff”, but this (warning: appalling language! insanity!) inappropriate, raunchy, crazed version of a pirate song that is originally from an Icelandic television show for kids! Wow.
I have watched it … well, more than three times. And yes, apparently everybody knows about this but me.
And … playing live at the meme beach house!
Yes, that’s a Stuism too.
My brother and I have this thing where we come up with ridiculous band names and then say in this really pretentious, knowing tone, “Oh, well, you know, it’s just one guy.”
This week’s band has a name that sounds a bit … um, shocking, but I assure you it isn’t. Because, well, because I have context. Which I will share with you. But first, the band!
Finish The Woo Bitch
And, as it turns out, it’s just one guy.
They’re playing in town all week. Except that it’s really just one guy.
[Okay. Context. I was writing a whiny complain-ey piece about how I dislike my work being referred to as woo, especially when the woo is referring to completely sensible things like talking to monsters about cookies.
But then I got busy with something else and forgot. So I wrote myself a reminder note.
And promptly forgot what the hell I was talking about. So the note was a big source of confusion this week: who is the Woo Bitch? And how am I supposed to finish her?
Luckily, I remembered what I was talking about. So that’s good. And really, it does kind of sound like a band.]
That’s it for me …
And yes yes yes, of course you can join in my Friday ritual right here in the comments bit if you feel like it.
Yeah? Anything hard and/or good happen in your week?
And, as always, have a glorrrrrrrrrrrrious day and a restful weekend-ing.
And a happy week to come. Shabbat shalom.
So then Phobic Me and Non-Phobic Me went out for a beer.
So. There is a me who has … oh, let’s say, issues about making phone calls.
And there is a me who does not even slightly have this problem.
And I know this because …
Well, according to the Book of Me, which knows all:
I have been known to put off calling certain people for weeks — even though I like them and want to talk to them — because the thought of picking up the phone makes me hide under the bed.
And I can also easily and gracefully jump on a teleclass where a thousand people are waiting to hear me say smartnesses, completely unprepared, and not even feel the slightest bit nervous.
Weird. Okay. Where do I go from here?
My clever, clever plan.
Obviously, the crazy best thing to do is to (nicely) lure these two selves into a room and eavesdrop while they have a conversation. And take notes!
But first I am going to make a list of everything I know about each of them.
And then I am going to ask each one to tell me more.
What I know about The Me Who Dreads Making Phone Calls:
She (especially) does not like to call:
- if it involves setting up an appointment
- anyone related to her
- good friends she hasn’t spoken with in a looooooong time
What informs the not-wanting? What situations hold discomfort for her?
- if there might be waiting or being put on hold
- anything involving confrontation
- possibility of questions that she can’t answer (or doesn’t want to)
- when there is no limit, no end in sight, no way to know how to end things
How she is feeling in this state of not-wanting-to-call:
- irritable
- anxious
- worried that other people will try to make her feel guilty
What else?
She has a lot in common with how I felt when I was a smoker.
In fact, sometimes I think I mostly smoked because it was such a good way to avoid things like making phone calls.
She likes safety, quiet, isolation.
What I know about The Me Who Has No Problem Whatsoever Making Phone Calls:
The calls she makes with such ease:
- client calls. Fun!
- teleclasses and teaching events
- her gentleman friend
- her best friend
The elements of these calls. What gives them so much ease?
- she is a pirate queen
- there is comfort for her: she is welcome, she belongs here
- there is nothing to defend
- there is either an agreed upon ending point or it’s no big deal to say okay gotta go
How she is feeling in this state of calling not being a big deal?
- relaxed
- gracious
- at ease
- comfortable
- safe
What else?
She also likes safety, quiet, isolation. But she brings those qualities with her.
And she also has access to other qualities, like radiance, groundedness and grace.
She has a lot in common with Teacher Me and Yoga Teacher Me and Shivanaut Me.
Okay, Me Who Dreads Making Phone Calls. What can you tell me?
She says:
I need more comfort. More! Comfort!
I do not need to be talked out of this or healed of this or … fixed. Don’t fix me.
Just give me space and comfort.
Things that help me: structure, form, order, certainty, lists.
Things that stress me out: mainly just not knowing how to get out.
I need another fox in my video game, you know?
Spaciousness. Protection. A better invisibility cloak. Lowered expectations. Trust.
Really, the best scenario would be if I didn’t ever have to call anyone. But if I could go away and someone else would do it for me, that would be okay too.
I say: Thank you for telling me what you need, sweetie. I will do everything I can to make sure you have access to these qualities.
And you, Me Who Doesn’t Have A Problem With Phone Calls? What do you want me to know?
She says:
You think of me as the strong one, but the truth is that both of us (the one who can make calls and the one who can’t) are strong.
And we both exist to protect you and to serve you and to make your life good.
We are sisters. And partners.
We are not as separate as you think. We exist together.
I say: Wow. That wasn’t what I was expecting. Thank you for telling me. Appreciated.
That’s where I’m stopping for now.
It just seems like a good place to stop.
But yeah, the two versions of me had a fairly entertaining conversation and then we all went out for beer.
I’ll post it here next week. In the meantime …
Comment zen for today …
As always: We all have our stuff. We’re all working on our stuff.
You are more than welcome to share things you know (or want to know) about various selves or parts-of-you.
This is a safe space for us to be with our stucknesses, which means 1) we don’t try to push through fear, and 2) we meet people where they are and we don’t give advice (unless someone specifically asks for it).
I don’t put Phobic-Me out in public in order to be told what to do. I let her show up here so that none of us has to be alone in this. And for hopefulness and for the process of being in a process.
Internet hugs all around.
A conversation with SOMEONE ELSE’S monsters for a change.
I talk to monsters. Like my Book monster. Or the You’re Not Allowed monster.*
* At first they are very scary but then they’re all schmoo-schmoo-schmoo. Extreme schmoo-ness!
And sometimes I talk to other people’s monsters. It’s kind of one of my superpowers.
Usually just with clients, but every once in a while for one of my students. Let’s call this lovely person Susannah.
Her monsters were going on and on really loudly and in unison about what a completely terrible person she is for not having updated her blog.
It was a collective of monstering. And they would not stop being shout-ey and mean to her. They were creating her writer’s block and making it worse at the same time.
A negotiated conversation with Susannah’s monsters.
I wanted to talk to just one and so I asked for a name, but it turned out they really, really wanted to be all smooshed together.
In fact, they decided that they’re calling themselves MonsterMash. One word. I know. But that’s what they said.
So here we are.
Havi: Hey, Susannah’s monsters, it’s Havi. And Selma the duck. I just want you to know that I’m not going to try and make you go away. I’m sure Susannah hired you for a reason. I just want to get some clarity on what’s going on, okay?
MonsterMash: It’s been almost a MONTH without a post, so clearly she’s profoundly and irreparably broken. Clearly she was never cut out for this writing thing. Clearly she’ll never be able to post again. Clearly —
Havi: Clearly you’re feeling really upset and anxious and worried, because you need to know that Susannah is going to be okay.
MonsterMash: Yes but how is she going to be okay when clearly she is such a mess and it’s been a month and there is NO LIGHT at the end of this tunnel!
Havi: That has to feel really frustrating, when you want her to find the way out of the tunnel and she can’t. Do you know why she can’t see the end of the tunnel and the light that’s there?
MonsterMash: Because there is no end there’s only tunnel!!!!!!!!!!!!
What is true?
Havi: Come on, look at her. Look at Susannah. Look at the tunnel. What is true?
MonsterMash: Susannah has her eyes closed.
Havi: That’s right. That’s why she can’t see any light. Do you know why she has her eyes closed?
MonsterMash: Because she feels boxed in. Because I crowded her. I scared her too good.
Havi: You scared her too well. Come on, you’re supposed to be writers.
The monster who thinks there’s no point, again.
MonsterMash: Fuuuuuuunnny. I didn’t mean to scare her. I mean, I did. Okay.
But I didn’t realize that she couldn’t see the light because of me. It doesn’t matter though because there’s no point.
Even if she does start writing, she’ll just realize what a waste of time it is. It’s better for her to let the blog die than to keep it going and make no money from it.
Havi: Who says she can’t make money from it? It’s pretty hard to find out if you won’t let her try.
That’s like a group of scientists running an experiment for five seconds and then deciding that it doesn’t work.
MonsterMash: How can she even think she’ll make money from this? What a joke!
Havi: You sound pretty sure of yourself. Isn’t this kind of one of those “the house always wins” scenarios?
You’ve fixed it so she’s so paralyzed by her own potential that she can’t create, and then you get to say “I told you so” when it doesn’t make money? Does that seem like fair play?
The real world.
MonsterMash: She should get a fair chance, yeah, theoretically. But the real world doesn’t work like that.
Havi: This is her world we’re talking about. I say we play fair.
MonsterMash: Okay, but it doesn’t matter anyway because she’s spent eleventy billion monster dollars on coaching and her attorney, so she’s screwed anyway.
Havi: From what I understand, she’s been getting some pretty shrewd advice from her support team.
And anyway, we already decided that it’s not fair to decide that she can’t make money until she’s had a fair shot. If she had six months with no monster talk, that might be a fair shot, but you guys won’t even give her a minute.
Have you ever tried another way?
MonsterMash: That’s bullshit. She’d be a failure without us too. Even more of one. That’s why we have to yell at her so much and then hide when she tries to talk to us.
Havi: Maybe. But how do you know? Have you ever tried it differently?
MonsterMash: No.
Havi: So …?
MonsterMash: Everyone will find out what a fraud she is!
Havi: You mean, when her people know that she goes through periods of struggle with her writing too?
I think her people will be hugely relieved to discover that. They’ll be able to identify with it.
The only way they could discover that she was a fraud (which she’s not) would be if she pretended to be perfect and to always be in flow. But she’s just being herself.
Uh oh.
MonsterMash: Uh oh that doesn’t sound good.
Havi: Guys, I’ve met Susannah. She’s awesome.
She’s super smart, really funny, very creative and has this wonderfully Susannah-ful way of articulating her thoughts. What is it that you don’t want her to discover? Why is it so important that she not see this?
MonsterMash: It will go to her head.
Havi: What does that mean?
MonsterMash: She’ll just see herself and then she’ll be disconnected.
Havi: But right now she can’t see herself and she’s ALSO disconnected. Isn’t there something in between?
MonsterMash: Hadn’t thought of that.
In between.
Havi: I think there’s something in between.
MonsterMash: Well, if she could see herself in the context of other writers.
If she could see how her being smart and funny helped them find their own smart and funny … that would be okay. It’s just not okay if she does it for herself.
Havi: Do you think she knows that? I mean, that this is your opinion?
MonsterMash: Dunno.
Prank calling.
Havi: If we let her open her eyes, and we helped her back to context, and we gave her room to breathe a little … and gave her permission to begin to feel her way to where it’s lighter…
MonsterMash: Well, don’t say it was our idea.
Havi: I wouldn’t.
MonsterMash: Can we tug her braid and run away?
Havi: What’s wrong with you?
MonsterMash: We need to play pranks when we get restless.
Havi: Okay, let’s go prank call some people. But first let’s give Susannah a giant magic flashlight and some rope and a map to the end of the tunnel, okay?
MonsterMash: PRANK CALLS!!!!
Havi (places giant magic flashlight, rope and map by Susannah’s feet)
And comment zen for today.
Oh, talking to monsters can be so hard and so painful.
I don’t at all mean to imply that it’s easy because it’s not. It really does take a lot of practice.** And you’ll want some negotiators too.
** See also my monster coloring book for extra help.
We all have our stuff. We’re all working on our stuff. And we try to meet each other with as much understanding as we can stand, which means we can talk about what works for us but we try not to give advice, unless someone specifically asks for it.
If you have loving words for Susannah, or if your monsters also like to make prank calls (or not — some monsters don’t even like cookies), you’re more than welcome to share. Internet hugs all around.
Remembering and not remembering.
The third-worst job I ever had involved a lot of dread.
Dread and anxiety and pressure and deadness and agonizing wishing it would end.
Maybe not as full-of-dread as the Moroccan mafia toy import company, and maybe not as full-of-deadness as the assembly line.
But the former I’ve mostly repressed and it’s gone. And as for the latter, I was too depressed to really be there, so I don’t remember. I mean, of course I remember but it seems like too many lifetimes ago.
No. That lifeless sad sad sad shell-person could not have been me. That is a dream.
But the third-worst job. That was definitely me.
Remembering and not remembering.
The official hours were eight to five. The actual hours were more like eight to seven.
There was one twenty minute break for lunch, during which I was still expected to keep answering the phones.
I guess you could say I was the secretary. Who was also the office manager. Who was also the personal assistant to the CEO. Who was also a bunch of other things.
During the days I was efficient, competent, organized, rushed. Also: screamed at, berated, humiliated, overburdened, unappreciated.
During whatever brief time I was both awake and not at work, I was engaged with trying to remember who I was. And sometimes trying to forget.
Mornings. Evenings. Mornings.
To arrive at work at eight a.m, I had to catch the 6:45 bus to Ramat HaHayal.
The evening bus was much longer. You never knew when it would come, and it took a winding, unbearably slow detour through every town, every neighborhood.
It was a pretty unlikely bus line for a terrorist to target, but terrorists in Israel are notoriously non-strategic and stranger things have happened, and every evening I would think maybe today is the day.
If the bus exploded, I wouldn’t have to go back to work the next day. If I died, at least I never had to go through a day like the one I’d just had.
And if I didn’t, the government would put me on a pension and take care of me. That usually got me through the first half of the ride home.
Home. Not really home. A place with a bed and a narrow space (maybe two feet by five feet) in which to do what I called monk’s yoga.
Monk’s yoga. And the other three.
There were four things that kept me sane.
One.
My boyfriend, who was four years younger than me and whom I loved so much it hurt.
He was getting ready to move to Amsterdam, which hurt more. And he didn’t need me the way I needed him, which hurt even more. A lot of hurt, in short.
In the twenty or so minutes between seeing him and falling asleep halfway through my dinner, I got to see myself through the eyes of someone who thought I was hot and smart and crazy-talented. And that was my salvation.
Two.
Writing. I didn’t have time for it but I did it anyway.
Scribbling bits and pieces on post-it notes. Typing up stories on my one day off.
It was probably the only time in my life when I had no problem at all self-defining as a writer.
When I wrote, I had power. I was in flow. My being-here-now had meaning. And that was my salvation.
Three.
Berlin.
One day I was going to get out of the deadness, quit the job and get to Berlin.
I got to speak a fair amount of German at work, and remembering each time that one day I would be gone and this would be nothing but a crappy memory was also salvation.
And then there was the monk’s yoga.
Yoga had gotten me through my divorce, through unemployment, through poverty, through unspeakable things. And it was going to get me through this.
I knew that.
And that is why I woke up at an impossibly early hour.
To have fifty sweet minutes with myself and my breath and my body. Not thinking. Just being.
The space I had to move in was so tiny and so cramped that there was a very limited number of poses that could be done in it. Like in a monk’s cell.
I did them all. Slowly. The way the monk would.
And then I maneuvered myself onto my back on the cool tiles. To do nothing for five minutes. It was going to be the most peaceful five minutes of my day, and I knew it.
Then it was over and I was back to multi-tasking: having my first cry of the day while rolling a cigarette and eating a piece of fruit and leaving a note on the door.
Monk’s yoga. Though he probably wouldn’t have cried or had the cigarette. Still, we shared a cell.
Oh, and now we’re here.
There is a reason for all of this:
I met her (I mean, me) again this morning and we had the most … unlikely conversation that I wanted to share with you.
And I did monk’s yoga this morning too and it was delightful.
And there are so many things I want to say and explain and wonder about.
But I’m going to save all of that for a second post.
In the meantime I will just place a magic wand that is also a tuning fork between me and her so that we can bridge the gaps. And I will say this too:
What a beautiful thing it is to be here now, in present time, in this moment, with everything I know and everything I have been.
I separate: that was then, this is now.
And I come back together: We are both writers. We both practice monk’s yoga. Slowly.
And I am so relieved to have reached this time when there is nothing needing to be forgotten.
And comment zen for today ….
We all have our stuff. We’re all working on our stuff.
It’s a process.
Memory can be tricky. Same goes for wisdom.
We try to meet each other with as much understanding as we can. And we’re also sovereign beings, which means that everyone gets to have his or her own experience.
If you have had difficult jobs or stories to share, or things that have brought you moments of everything-is-better-now, these are welcome. Besos.
A brief interview with my blog.
Yes.
Yes.
And we begin.
Me: So, you’re my blog.
My blog: Yes.
Me: I wish you had a name I could call you.
My blog: Okay. Pause. If I think of something I’ll let you know.
Me: Isn’t it a little weird that we hang out six times a week and I’ve never asked you if you have a name?
My blog: Not really.
Me: I have some questions for you.
My blog: Yes, I gathered that when I read the title of the post. Thanks for letting me know it wouldn’t be too long.
Me: Right on. Can we start?
My blog: Go for it.
Collecting information.
Me: Sometimes I have so many things to write about here that it hurts. Bursting! My hands hurt from scribbling ideas. And other times I don’t know what I want to say. And all those scribbled ideas just get on my nerves.
My blog: What’s the question?
Me: Well, I wonder why that is. I don’t really understand what’s going on there.
My blog: You’re not asking permission to write a post about not wanting to write a post, are you? Because we don’t do that.
Me: No. That’s not really my style either. It’s more like, I want to know as much as possible about you and how you work, so I can solve this problem myself. Right now I’m just collecting information.
My blog: Okay. What do you want to know?
What do you know that I don’t know?
Me: What do you know that I don’t know?
My blog: A lot.
Me: I thought as much. Are you going to share any of it?
My blog: Listen.
Me: I’m listening.
My blog: Okay.
You don’t know how comforting it is to people that you don’t have all the answers.
You don’t know how reassuring it is for them that you work on your stuff in public.
You don’t know what it’s like to encounter a wizard and go ohohoho ohhhhh a wizard.
Me: You mean like what Isabel said? About how every time she goes to my blog she runs away, because it’s like skipping through the forest and all of a sudden you’re at the wizard’s house and it’s just too scary?
My blog: Okay. Also like that.
What do you wish I understood already?
Me: What do you wish I understood already?
My blog: That you are enough. That you have always been enough. That everything you do is enough.
Me: That isn’t what I thought you were going to say. I thought you want to encourage me to do more and do better.
My blog: Why would I want to do that?
Me: I don’t know.
My blog: Neither do I.
Me: What am I supposed to do with that?
My blog: If you keep acknowledging the enoughness of the people who read, without telling them that this is what you are doing, enoughness will just become one of the qualities that lives here.
Me: Like safety and sanctuary?
My blog: Yes, and like permission and sovereignty and playfulness and grounding and radiance and ridiculousness and delight.
Me: I had no idea so many qualities lived here.
My blog: That’s because you’ve been friends with them for so long.
If you could give me one piece of advice, what would it be?
Me: One piece of advice?
My blog: I already gave it to you. You are enough. Stop trying to be what Hiro calls the shepherd. Be in your enoughness.
Me: How do I “be in my enoughness”?
My blog: By saying that what you do is enough.
Me: But how can it be enough?
My blog: ….
Me:I f it’s true that what I do is enough … then wouldn’t that kind of imply that I am done? I don’t want to be done. I’m not ready to be done!
My blog: No. There is no done.
Me: Good.
My blog: Just be in your enoughness.
Me: What does it look like, this being in my enoughness?
My blog: Talk to me. Talk to the enoughness. Talk to the you-from-later who already knows how to do this because she learned it.
Me: So … more interviews?
My blog: There may be some more interviews. You can also just have casual conversations. And go horseback riding together.
Horseback riding?
Me: Horseback riding?
My blog: It was just an example. You don’t have to. I just meant that it doesn’t have to be so formal. Why don’t you have a gratitude picnic and see who shows up?
Me: You totally remember every post I’ve ever written.
My blog: Yes. I spend a lot of time in the archives. You should visit. There’s some good stuff in there.
Me: There’s also a lot of terrible stuff in there.
My blog: And yet, you are enough. See? That’s how it works.
Me: “And yet, I am enough.” That’s how it works.
My blog: Yes.
Me: So I need to learn more about this enoughness thing. And, in order to do that, I need to: have picnics and ask questions and declare that I am enough.
My blog: That sounds good.
It’s all connected.
Me: How does enoughness relate to sustainability and queenliness and Bolivia and throwing Rallies and all the other stuff I want to write about?
My blog: It’s all connected.
Me: What’s that supposed to mean? I mean, in this context.
My blog: The more you are in your enoughness and connecting to this quality — this experience — of enoughness, the more you will see how the enoughness grows everything else you want to do in the world.
Me: So it’s okay if I don’t write about these themes just yet because they need to come from the me who already knows about enoughness?
My blog: I knew you’d understand. You’re so quick. It’s why we work so well together.
Me: We work so well together?
My blog: Six hundred and five posts and you hadn’t noticed that?
Me: I guess not.
My blog: That’s why you need to spend more time experiencing enoughness.
Me: You’re probably right.
My blog: Of course I’m right. That’s why you interviewed me.
And comment zen for today.
Enoughness is a difficult quality. Having conversations with one’s blog … as it turns out … also difficult.
No advice please. Just permission and space to experience things the way I experience them. And of course the same permission and space extend to you. Love to all the commenter mice, the Beloved Lurkers and everyone who reads. I appreciate you all tremendously.