Inside of my aging-hippy-new-age exterior, there actually resides a Type A, Raging Perfectionist.  Okay, a recovering-raging-perfectionist. I have spent oh, too many decades attempting to get It Right, whatever the It of the moment might be.

Perfectionism is such a full-time gig, creating an endless smokescreen, smudging up the things that really matter; the sunrise, the smile on the dog’s face, the sound of our loved one’s laughter.

In my early sobriety, as I put down the substances that were literal hedges, blocking me from life, my subtler modus operandi emerged.  

Perfectionism reared its lovely head.  

I became obsessed with this concept in 12 Step recovery, urging us to “pray only for the knowledge of God’s will* for us, and the power to carry that out.”   

I wanted to get it right.

I tried really hard.

I spun my wheels.

Is this God’s will?

What does life want of me?

Endlessly questioning, busy-busy, living with my mind was exhausting, a dangerous neighborhood to visit without adult supervision.  With the escape hatches closing, everywhere I went, there I was.

I had no capacity to imagine what God’s will might be.

Sitting in Twelve Step meetings those first months, I knew I belonged; I related profoundly to the things discussed but had no ability to connect personally. I had made zero eye contact, spoken to nobody. I was a hungry ghost, floating in and out, arriving right as meetings began, scurrying into a seat and scooting out as the final words were still in the air.

But this God’s will thing was bugging me.  What did it mean?

In an act of ultimate desperation, at the end of a meeting about this principle, I approached a member of the home group.  

Carol was the first person I talked to.  Well, kind of talked to.

I approached her with ultimate, stealth-like caution.

“Excuse me?”

I spoke to her back, not a super-effective mode of communication.

My voice sounded tinny, young, hovering on a squeak.

I tried again.

“Hi?”

She turned to look at me.  Her eyes were green-grey, her complexion pale. She studied me. I felt alien, sweaty, unable to speak.

“Hi.”  

I repeated.

She quizzically looked at me, her silence heavy around us.

“How do you know what God’s will is?”  I blurted out.

Her expression softened with a subtly, an almost gentle kindness that knocked at my defended, defeated heart.  I held my breath and held on tightly, a great life strategy.

“Oh,” she said with a pause.

Another long beat seemed to pass.  And then her words–

“God’s will is what’s happening.”

My jaw dropped.  

So profound!

But, what the heck does that mean?
I had no clue.

I blubbered a thank you, having reached my point of ultimate interpersonal interaction, and pulled myself through the post meeting crowd, jockeying toward the door, escaping out into the hubbub of Saint Marks Place.

God’s will is what’s happening!

This conversation with Carol took place many years ago.  I continue to think of her words, see her eyes, feel her quiet kindness.

And I continue to ponder:

God’s will is what’s happening.

I interface with reality.  My actions, my attitudes all partner with the moment and determine how I feel within the moment.  Yet clearly, reality is relentless.

Something else is calling the shots, carving out the moment, determining the outcome alive in each breath.

Yet my participation is paramount.  What I bring to it, like on the yoga mat, determines my comfort or not.

My partner, reality, frightened me this week; I have been cellularly shaken awake.  As I settle and clear, I remember:

Something else is in charge.

I look to the sunrise each morning, to help remind me.  

Something created that.

I look to the nature around me.

Something created that.

I look to animals, to children (from afar), to people that come and go across my heart.

Something created that.

The more I relax, the easier, the simpler the moment becomes.

Relaxation is the easier, softer way.

I choose to trust that however my life circumstance unfolds, I will find my way.

The sunrise will awaken me.

The sunset will quiet me.

The stars will guide me.

And when they don’t, I will pray for the willingness to relax.

And when I am found, then, too, I will relax.

One breath—one thing—one moment,

May we all be found, no matter what is unfolding.

May we all soften into the arms of the moment.

Dear Folks, how do you remember who is in charge?  What strategies do you use? Please, as usual, keep me posted.  I am aruni@rnetworx.com.

All blessings,
Aruni

God’s* will–substitute whatever word or concept works for you.

I’m remembering a conversation I had about a hundred years ago with my dear friend, Audrey.  I have zippo memory of the specific circumstances, but clearly, I was having a most human experience and possibly had entered The Land of the Whine.  

I will never forget her kind and wise words:

Aruni, not every day is a Ten.

Really?

You guys, I thought the point of living mindfully—or whatever the heck it is that we are doing—was to land a Perfect Ten, on a Damn Daily Basis!

No?

Nope.

Some days suck.

Some days, our partners insist on being the true assholes that they are.              
Some days, the bus is late, the car doesn’t start.

Some days, our kids get sick, the job vanishes.

Some days, our hearts are broken, illness whacks us upside the head.

In the words of the ancient sages, shit happens.

Big shit happens.

Trauma happens; events unfolds, after which everything is different.  These events squeeze out our breath, disrupt our balance, shift our perspective. Everything changes.

It seems, this Big Stuff is inevitable.  I don’t think we get out of this life without the human cellular upheaval that is trauma.

And then, the small stuff; some days suck incrementally, with tiny little pinpricks of messiness filling up the hours.

I’ve had a superficially sucky day, an odd conglomeration of uncomfortable events morphed into one twelve-hour timeframe.  

It simply rattled me.  And hurt me. And frightened me.

That’s the deal.  Sometimes being alive equals being rattled and hurt and frightened.  Sometimes being alive means discomfort.

Ah, ha!  That’s it.  I don’t want to be uncomfortable.

That’s not a big surprise, knowing myself as I do, nevertheless I still find the realization shocking.   

I really don’t want to be uncomfortable.

Living mindfully doesn’t enroll us into creating all Fantastically Perfect Days; rather it’s cultivating the capacity to be present with whatever is happening.

Not every day is a ten—what the heck?

I have worked so hard, trying to create those tens.  

I accidentally found one of those sneaky little lines in the Big Book of AA, one six-word sentence I had never noticed before, until the moment I was ready, decades into my recovery, a tiny sentence obviously not visible to me until then. Wildly calling for my attention from the page, this tiny sentence read:

You will not always be inspired.

Dumbfounded, I read it again.

And again.

I truly thought the plan was to Always Be Inspired.

Doesn’t living spiritually mean I must always be inspired, connected, one with All, that cosmic force that rotates the planets, that spins the stars, that carries babies down the birth canal?

Nope.

I think not.

Staying present with what I’m given, with the big and small heart-rockers, allowing myself as best as I can to touch into the feelings, knowing that by simply acknowledging them, I will outlive them, that’s the journey. Yet, how can we support ourselves in living into this formula?

I’m offering us these three simple reminders to put in our pockets, to help us walk through those shitty days, both big and little:

• Breathe.
  Breathe, and then breathe again, exaggerating the exhale. Most importantly, the breath is the best impactful intervention, shifting us out of the sympathetic nervous system, the fight/flight/freeze, into the parasympathetic, the rest/digest.  The breath will take us there, through the vagal nervous system. Breathe. When the shit hits the fan, breathe.
• Relax.
  Relaxing into the feelings rather than fighting them—this will always and forever work.  We will instantly forget to do this. I’m reminding us now.
• Remember.
  It will change.  It always changes.  You will outlive the feeling.  They will shift and release, morph, come back again, shape-change itself.
  They will always change.

In the afternoon of my superficially shitty yet painful-as-heck day, I took a walk with Zac Joseph the Dog of my Life.  It had been a full day of massive rain, torrential downpours. The snow melt was remarkable, all that ice and freezing snow from our subzero days just pouring into the current, the fluidity of water, returning to itself.  (see picture above)

THERE IT WAS!

The reminder I needed—it changes.

It always changes.

The snow becomes water.

The ice melts.

The day becomes night.

And day, again.

The moon ripens and grows.

Peaks.

And releases herself down, back into emptiness.

It all shifts and changes.

And we do, too.

Feelings change.

All we need to do is

Breathe

Relax

And remember.

It is all okay, as it is.

 

I don’t know about you, but for myself, I must navigate the slippery slope of my own habitual behavior, day after day.  And, ever so slowly, inch by inch, situation after situation, I am eking out a simple strategy that offers me the potential for choice and even possibly comfort.  

Abiding myself as I am, leaning into the direction in which I choose to turn, this is the compass of my daily practice.  

In this moment of Resolution, as the New Year opens to us, as we are lured into unwieldy and unrealistic commitments to ourselves, let’s get real.

How much can we expect of ourselves?

How much can we change?

For me, is it possible to rid myself of self-centered fear, that tiny, 2:15 a.m. voice that whispers, “Sure, it’s all good now, but just you wait…you are so screwed.”?

Is it possible for me to jumpstart my six-month-lethargy and visit the gym (oops, membership has elapsed) daily?

Certainly not.

The way to ridding myself of my self-centered fear is by accepting that voice, honoring it, and choosing to lean toward faith.

The way of bringing more movement into my day is by accepting My Inner Super-Slug, blessing her, and getting to that new trainer for next Thursday’s appointment.

The way out of It, I believe, whatever the IT might be, is through It, coming into relationship with the It, chunking behavior change down to manageable next steps.

Behavior bites.  

Tiny nibbles of change.

My most effective and comforting tool for doing this is repetition.

When the 2:15 a.m. voice gets louder, when she demands my attention with more fervor, more insistence, repeating prayer or mantra tethers me to neutrality.  

It returns me to choice.  It quiets me.

When I feel overwhelmed with my couch-potato-ness, convinced I will never leave the house again, that pre-sunset, 4:00 walk (you know, when the light in the day slants and softens with such magical brilliance), springboards me outside, onto the trail, down to the lake, for just a little movement, just a little air.

Repetition, patterns, consistency.

Oh, that so works for me.

Do you know this poem, by William James Lampton, the American author, who, by the way, was Mark Twain’s cousin?  He says:

After twelve days of stay-cation, filled with cheese, Netflix, holiday cheer, and delightful fuzziness about the day of the week, here I sit, ever so slowly emerging from the cocoon of celebration.  

I am facing my phobia of reentry.  

Reentry into exactly what?

A routine?

Waking up at 5 instead of the radically self-indulgent 6:20?

Talking with people, like, in a work setting?

Teaching?

Writing?

I love these things.

Commuting down the road four minutes?

What’s the problem, Aruni?

I seem unable to remove the remote control from my clutched hand.

I want more stay-cation.  

I want to stay in stay-cation.

And now it is now; 2019, the day of the week reveals herself, the sun shines on the little dusting of snow, the birds are delighted and could give a shit about my reentry process.

I have procrastinated writing this week’s blog.  I want to continue to sit on the couch in my long johns without brushing my hair.  My truest desires emerge; long johns, no hair brushing. (I did, however, brush my teeth before putting my hands on the keyboard, rest assured.)

How are you all doing out there?  

How is your reentry into the post-holiday, anticlimactic January?  

How are you?

I think this is a slippery slope, this early January thing.

My lovely holiday wreath looks a tad wilted.

I feel a tad wilted.

I’m offering myself, you and me and us, a few super-simple suggestions—here they are, for whatever they are worth:

• I choose to resist making massive proclamations for the ENTIRE YEAR.   Example—I choose love and life and health and wealth and will go to the gym twice a day until I die.

I’m pretty sure that would kill me.

• I choose to focus on today—what is it, just for today, that I am choosing? Example—Today?  Put pants on top of said long johns, making the transition into the world ever simpler.  Get in car, drive to post office and gas station.

That would be massively helpful and self-esteem building.

• I choose to resist being massively decisive and scale my decisions down to bite-sized choices. Example—Rather than choosing which super-expensive air purifier I’m buying, I’m deciding to have a chicken soup for lunch.

Sounds delicious.  And easier.

Let’s be gentle on ourselves; we celebrated, we connected, we pulled out of the routine of our habitual days to give ourselves love and light and family and friends and a break from It All.  

Let’s go gently back into it all.

If you are facing 528 still-unread emails, or if sit on your couch, willing yourself forward toward the gas station—

If you are facing a day of back-to-back meetings or waiting till your noon phone call with a friend—

Whatever the form of your reentry into this anticlimactic early January, let’s be gentle.  Let’s accept ourselves exactly where we are, with tender rigor, with the right use to will.

Without pushing, without plodding, without judgment, one step at a time, let’s move forward into the new/old rhythm of more habituated life.

Let’s look to the light in the day, the rising sun, her journey across the heavens, her early resting place in the west—let’s look to the earth in her ultimate wisdom of rhythms, to reconnect.

I choose to reenter the cycle of light.

I choose to reenter softly the work that I love, writing and coaching and teaching.

I choose to put down the remote control with radical acceptance of the little girl who clutches so tightly onto that which has already ended.  

I choose to love that little child—

All the way to the post office.

All the way to the gas station.

All the way to reentry.

All the way into 2019.

One day at a time.

 

Dear Folks, I hope there was something helpful in this reading today.  I’m happy to report that I did make it to the post office and the gas station, although I did forget one vital stop.  LIFE! So life-like.

And how are you?  How is your reentry?  How is your early and anticlimactic January unfolding?  Please do keep me posted. I am aruni@rnetworx.com.

All blessings,
Aruni