Self-sabotage, really?

So I haven’t written all day. At the start of the day I’d thought “ooh I’ll have the whole afternoon to write”. But because I didn’t go to sleep until almost 1am last night, that meant, since sleep is also top priority, especially after the accident, I had to sleep until almost 9am. Then laundry, clean a bit, food prep, made some obligatory calls, time got away from me again. Having to go to class at 4pm was also #1 priority, my body needs it’s favorite exercise to get back to itself. So I didn’t even get my one hour meditation in, another at top of the list, just half an hour. I’m noticing while writing this, that’s a lot of  #1 priorities!

But here I am, it’s almost 7pm, went to class, then shopping for mom, now sitting, about to meditate for another half hour. (In case you’re wondering “what the hell, an hour of meditation a day?!” That is part of a 90 Day Commitment I made to myself since September 10th, 2017, during a life changing weekend in LA. I will be continuing to talk about it here. More later!)

I noticed anxiety about the dread of this. Ah shit I haven’t written today, gotta do my three pages. Three pages typed though? Ugh. Three pages in my journal is easier, can’t I do that? The pages are smaller and my writing takes up more space, ok? No, get in the habit of typing, silly. When I noticed that I was having anxiety, I pinpointed what was underneath it – the fear of how I would judge myself and feel about myself if I yet again didn’t do it, and instead made dinner and just wanted to “relax” by getting sucked into Youtube or netflix or facebook.

So of course I define doing that instead of writing as my self-sabotage again. But even that, that I label it as self-sabotage, right now I’m thinking….interesting. Because wait a minute, I was in a traumatizing car accident day before yesterday, isn’t it ok if I’m all of a sudden exhausted from the emotional and spiritual upheaval of that? Or is that yet again my excusing myself, my self-sabotage? But then, if it is an excuse and self sabotage, then, what? What that means, what that does, is it further cements my criticism and judgement of myself. What I’m really thinking in those moments of “oh you can’t not do your daily three pages because of your 90 day commitment, every one else is sticking to theirs, so I must be lame and lazy and not as worthy of being happy or successful. If I’m just going with how I feel then I will always be stuck and living a life I don’t want to live and I will never be the person I want to be! So goddammit I’m going to force myself to do this thing, despite the fact that my body is telling me “you don’t have to, you shouldn’t, I don’t want you to force yourself to do anything. I want you to do what feels right to do”. Well, resting and relaxing feels right, but if I do that and don’t do the all important writing then I won’t be able to relax because I’ll be berating myself while I’m “relaxing”, for not doing it!

But wait again. What if I just didn’t do the writing, that thing I’m supposed to do, that in my mind is what’s going to change my life? What if, here’s the key, I didn’t berate myself for not doing it, at all. Not in one tiny way. Meaning, I didn’t even have the thought of “it’s ok, you will do it tomorrow, you deserve to rest and not worry about it”. Even saying that to myself implies that when I do do it, then I will be back to being worthy and on my way to my great life. But this day, when I’m not doing it, is just me in limbo and I won’t be making any progress towards my “goals”.

No, wait a minute again! Who says that by not doing the thing I think I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not making progress, and that my dream life isn’t still on it’s way to me, regardless?! Why do I have to “work” so hard to make sure I do the things that will make it happen? Just thinking that implies the other key that lies under all of this – that thought is me not loving myself, which of course is what brings in a loss of faith and trust. I have defined my not writing three pages a day, every day, as meaning that my dream life can’t happen unless I do all the right things, first by sticking to what I said I was going to do. But if I keep believing that, I’m the jailer of my own prison. And even more to the point, why do I still have to keep believing that my “dream life” is out there somewhere, in the distance, and isn’t right here, right damn now?!

So instead, I’m turning this on it’s head. I refuse to believe anymore that I have to stick with and force myself to do things that in the moment I’m not wanting to do. What if, unlike in the past, the not wanting to do it is actually coming from even more of an inner knowing, and is actually NOT coming from resistance to being the person I want to be, because of feeling unworthy. What if, sometimes, not wanting to do something or keep a commitment is actually not about me sabotaging myself but is actually my higher wisdom saying “try something new, do what you DO want to do and….drum roll, don’t beat yourself up about it”.

This thought has only occurred to me because I’ve been making subtle strides in loving myself in the middle of those thoughts of self beratement, which is the self-sabotage itself. The increased meditation has brought on new experiences outwardly, that weekend in LA, the panic that I lost my journal (I didn’t), the car crash, which are mirroring a deep shifting. Inwardly, the frozen tectonic plates of my former beliefs are starting to move, they are restless, they are adjusting to fit a new landscape of new feelings, that come from new awareness. And this awareness is showing me, maybe that belief that if I don’t do this or that then I can’t have my idealized fabulous life and can’t be my idealized self, has had it’s day. That belief is now drowning in the choppy waters created by these moving icebergs. New beliefs that have been slowly rooting in me, sleeping, waiting to hear my call, are now ready to break off and have their own experiments in the other lakes and seas of my soul.

One of them is this; I am all wise and all knowing and however I feel is exactly right at all times, there is no longer such a thing as self-sabotage. That belief has lost it’s breath and is now headed to the bottom of the ocean of my former identity. This new piece of ice broke free before it’s mother sank, to create another adjustment within me, a looking around, swimming it’s way through the rising tides of new thoughts. And the first one it’s being swept along by is saying that the time has come, this ocean is expanding. By letting myself be whoever I am right now, and loving who that is, no memory of what self-sabotage even means, is the dawning of a new continent within the planet of my ever-exploring self.

 

Lullabies and doggies

It’s been a strange and hard few days. I just got to the house yesterday, this incredible, beautiful house in the hills of San Rafael, California. It is not my house. It is a housesitting gig I happened upon a year ago, seven minutes from where I live. This is the fourth time where I get to bask in the relaxation and peace of what it must be like to be rich, or how rich is defined to me. If I was rich, I’d have a house like this. It has a lot of light and is surrounded by trees and hiking trails and the brilliant silence of the sound symphony that is nature.

A couple years ago, in the midst of the break up of a long term love relationship, struggling with inner turmoil while also being guided out and into a whole new world of myself, my first housesitting gig was presented to me. That was a different house; in the hills of Mill Valley, California, in an even more exquisite setting. I only live 15 minutes away from there, but I may as well have been in a different, albeit ideal, country. I had stepped into a parallel life. The view there, from the kitchen, and from the bedroom, was the very vision I’d had in my then recent dreams. I’d been imagining this exact view, it just kept coming to me, before I even knew a break up was underway. Then, in the depths of pain and fear of extricating myself out of a partnership with someone I loved, while also knowing it had to end, came the invitation from an acquaintance. A perfectly materialized replica of what I’d been seeing leading up to the pain. It was a gift out of nowhere, a haven of escape, and a glimpse of what was waiting for me on the other side of that necessary darkness. On the other side of doubt. And the best part, the house had two beings of Pure Love for me to have the privilege to care for; in the bodies of doggies.

And yet, these places are not mine. I am a borrower of someone else’s wonderful life. Of course, that is a fallacy. I know nothing of the inner worlds of the people who live in them and don’t presume that they are any happier than anyone else. But now that I am here in this latest house, that is the feeling I’m reminded of. I’m being forced to see, and ponder, what I don’t have. Depending on my mood, my occasional vulnerability to old ways of thinking, that ridiculously destructive mindset can lead down a path where, this time, I refuse to go. That is one perspective. That is the perspective of lack. Lack is what lives in all of us, if we allow it to wake itself, as the beast of illusion. “I don’t have that, I can’t be that, I’m not worthy of being or having or doing” this, that or the other.

And there is also the Light. It knows that being here now, in this house, with this lone beautiful dog Lulu as my guide, is the most glorious gift that my soul could have conjured up. And Light always and only knows gratitude. I am so thankful for my hard, panting, isolated, shot through with miracles life, I could cry. And do, fairly regularly. Lulu knows who she is, and she reminds me that I Am That too. This house and this dog, yet another signal that whatever shifts that are happening in me, however uncomfortable and discombobulating the cauldron is right now, they are exactly perfect, pushing me into something that I am being prepared for.

I had been struggling with feelings of not knowing what to do next and how to handle all the newness, and the people I’ve been “connecting” with, in an online group of creatives. I’m going to LA later this week for a “transformational” workshop. I’ve been called to do this and I will be meeting many of these new people. But more to the point, all the excitement of getting in touch with and drawing out who I am and what I want, has inevitably caused a thrashing side-to-side mind. From wall to wall it runs, from the enormity of what it could all mean. This has been happening almost every day now for a week, a back and forth, up and down, tidal crashing of both seeing the horizon from the top of the wave, to feeling the impact of the steep and violent hit to the bottom of the shore.

So last night, after another day of chaotic shape-shifting between the old me and the new me, in meditation, I felt the presence. I heard the voice. It was above me. Then it was behind me. Then it was in me. It simply began, and kept reciting, The Lullaby of God, “I Love You.” I let it penetrate me. It merged with Little Me. It became me. As I made my dinner, it was there. And then, as it does, it began to fade. The Little Me thoughts of doubt and fear, a familiar default setting, gradually began drowning the lullaby out. And yet, the schizophrenia of space was also there. I was aware of the space, split second glimpses into all the infinite aspects of me. The space was a nudging “see, we’re all listening, we can hear it too”. Though I was still falling back into the suffering of being inside my thoughts, there was also the awareness that I was outside them. Little Me was in pain. “I was feeling so much better just then, why am I feeling off again now? Why do I do this to myself? Why do I have to keep falling back?”

But the space that contained all of me was there too, noticing those thoughts and, simply continuing the lullaby. It was speaking myself to Rest, soothing the child to sleep. If we can cause our suffering, but we can also cause our awakening, how incredibly powerful must we all be?

As I look over at the innocence and beauty that is Lulu, I am reminded that every single thought and feeling with the slightest “offness”, any kind of negativity, is pain. Underneath pain, lies fear, disguised as doubt, disguised as Separate. And it’s incessant wail is crying out for love. There is a space between all of that. It is always there and, for the most part, we don’t know it. It gets wider, it gets narrower, but it is always there. It holds the antidote to the closed window of fear, and right now it is singing the lullaby of You into eternity. Don’t just listen for it, hear it. Take it in. Be it.

 

Confusion’s latest incarnation

What to say, when to say, and how to say it? What to do, how to do it, and why again? These questions have been running around in my mind lately like little oompaloompas. Instead of being the little demons they were before, their normal everyday costumes, they’ve morphed into somewhat benign little disturbances who are actually having fun teasing me, while dancing around inside me and squealing.
I’ve become aware that they’re there, and they are annoying, but I’m letting them do their thing. That’s who they are after all. And they are part of me. And because I’m expanding my ability to, on occasion, actually accept and, rarely, even enjoy their incessant chatter, they’ve taken up residence in the factory of my candyland brain. Their home is no longer a swamp of darkness that’s hiding hideous monsters underwater. Now they can come up for air, breathe and look around. They’ve taken on land, to form a whole other species, a whole new identity. Their master, the personality known as the me that is Lia, has given them permission to exist.
She now acknowledges them for the simple confusion that they are. They are her questions, they are her ambivalence, they are her uncertainty about who she is and what she wants. She can now just watch them and love her creation. She has decided to not label them or judge them or demean their foggyness as bad, their all over-the-placeness as wrong, their seeming crazyness as something to stay secret in the swamp.
She is simply seeing them for what they are to her now; confusion, wonder, little fools who don’t know any better and don’t feel the need to either. She can relax, she can simply be confused. She knows that this fog, masquerading as a mass of costumed and harmless tasmanian devils who don’t know which way is up, but are having a blast creating such a duststorm, will settle. They will need to rest eventually, the fog will lift. A new creation, a new species to inhabit, will emerge from out of the swamp, glide over the land and start to lift off, telling her what to do and who to be next.