“I Don’t Want To….”

I’m a good girl, just in case you haven’t noticed.

Propelled by wild people-pleasing earlier in my life, I’ve been beyond committed to get you to like me. My M.O.? Showing up STRONG, doing my BEST, offering 2000% if the situation calls for 100% or 82%–that’ll do it.

Right?

Then you’ll like me.

However, as I age, as my energy quiets down, new voice emerges:

I DON’T WANT TO.

Resistance, that slippery sneak, slides through this veneer to speak her truth.

I don’t. I really don’t want to. I don’t want to do a lot of things. And for this wacky humanoid, this is an evolutionary blessing.

These days, I’m more able to own my resistance, to judge it less, to pay more attention to that voice in me, to show more interest, perhaps almost curiosity. This past week has been fascinating. I’ve seen that the things that I dearly love are also subject to my resistance. Here are a few examples:

Writing our weekly blog—this profound practice is a gift from life. It truly is an essential and blessed part of my weekly flow. On a weekly basis, being willing to look, to LOOK at what’s happening inside of me, what’s happening outside of me, and to sit at the computer and receive the communication. And then to offer it out to you! Truly this is a blessing and a privilege. I always learn so much both from the content I am able to discover and from the process of writing. But/and, this week:

I DON’T WANT TO.

Practicing my guitar. Playing the guitar is truly one of my favorite things to do on the planet. I’ve played since childhood. My commitment these last few years to study classical guitar has been so good for me, on so many levels. Holding the guitar against my belly returns me instantly to the child that I was, holding my childhood guitar, wanting to be a cowboy (because I didn’t know the word lesbian). If I were a cowboy, I knew everything would be okay. I had to play the guitar to be a cowboy. I had to be a cowboy to be okay.

This week:

NOPE. DON’T WANT TO.

I DON’T WANT TO.

Enough examples. You get the drift, I hope.

Bottom line: resistance exists. Of course it does.

~~~

A few words about resistance:

• It is inevitable.
• It will come.
• It will go.
• It wants our attention.
• It is not negative. It is neutral.
• Skillful intervention will help its passage, its integration.
• There are no bad parts*—certainly it isn’t bad.
• Our resistance has much to teach us.

How to work with our own resistance? Good question. Here are some ideas:

• Notice without judgment your voice of resistance.
• Welcome it.
• Ask it what it wants and needs.
• Lean away softly from it toward the things that must get done.
• Chunk those things down to smaller to-dos, always helpful.
• Practice.
• Keep practicing.
• Absolutely no need to make yourself or this voice wrong!

In our world of duality, if there is willingness, there must be resistance. Right? Why do I give my willingness a 10+++ and think my resistance is -2?

 

Remember that profound saying:

What’s in the Way is the Way.

~~~

Friends,

What are you resisting?

What might your resistance want to tell you? Show you? Teach you?

 

Reach out. Let me know.

~~~

Eva Cassidy is a goddess of song. Her voice is truly remarkable. Have you heard of her? She is known and now celebrated for her extraordinary soprano voice and her interpretations of jazz, folk and blues. Her music lives on, even though Eva tragically died at 33 years old, without critical or popular acclaim. After her death, her music eventually gained the recognition and appreciation that it deserves. She never knew of her musical success.

This song! I have listened to it compulsively this week. Wade in the Water—urging us forward through our own personal self-inflicted slavery, as it urged escaped slaves toward the Underground Railroad and freedom. The line “God will trouble the waters” to me claims divine intervention. We are not alone. Whatever we are wading through, we are supported, loved, and honored.

This is totally outside my usual musical choices. So, hang on. Please do listen:

~~~

Friends,

 

One step at a time.

That is all life asks.

One breath at a time.

One nanosecond

At a time.

Right here and right now,

That is the only place to be.

Give us the courage and the strength

To keep practicing

Coming back.

May all beings benefit from our shared words.

Stay blessed,

Aruni

*No Bad Parts—Richard Schwartz, Internal Family Systems

Asking for Help?  Who, Me?  Why Bother?

 

Here is a story from 129,000 years ago:

I was a new volunteer in the Kripalu ashram. The year was 1989. As I said, 129,000 years ago. My seva, or selfless service assignment was in the Household Department. Ours was:

• To change and make all guest beds.
• To clean guest toilets. Don’t ask.
• To vacuum long hallways that weren’t apparently dirty.
• To gather great life lessons from the wisdom of one’s relationship to endlessly long vacuum cords.
• And—Etc. To clean.
• To clean. Everything. Even if it isn’t dirty. I learned during my time in Household, it wasn’t dirty because we continued to clean it. Revelatory.
• And to grow spiritually.

I hadn’t done many physical jobs in my life. Wait. Let me ponder. Nope, come to think of it, I had zero relationship with physical work. I did work on a farm in the Catskills once. For one-half-day. My relationship to the prickly squash I was picking was irritating. And so was the constant bending over. Damn it, why didn’t anybody find an easier way to pick that squash?

Suffice to say, I hadn’t much of a relationship with physical work. This seva, this mirror into which I looked to learn and grow, this arm of karma yoga, the yoga of service, was new, oh so new to me.

It was a Sunday, our busy day. To accommodate the changeover in guest rooms, there were many a bed to be made. Our tiny yet committed team of 6 volunteers went down to the Brothers’ Dorm in the basement. (We called male guests, brothers. Ah, if only the men in leadership on the planet could act as brothers today). Our afternoon job was to change the bunk beds in the three dorms. I was already tired and anxious. I had no relationship with bunk beds in my life. No intimate bunk bed experience. None. Zippo.

It was afternoon. We had worked all morning cleaning the bathrooms. (Seriously, don’t ask.) I was always just over the edge of self-doubt. How do you clean a toilet? How do you vacuum? Our coordinator, Arpana who had been in the ashram a few years longer than us new kids, was with us, to organize and to support.

We walked into the first dorm, Room 342. It was a large dark room, very grey. A grey room. It smelled stale and strangely grey. Then! Then I noticed how many beds……The amount of bunk beds that greeted me was startling—I was unable to count them, although I continued to try.

Sixty beds? Thirty pairs? OMG.

I was always on the edge of self-doubt. Propelled wildly by my out-of-control people pleasing—I just wanted you to love me—I was committed, COMMITTED to being the best little bunk-bed-maker on the planet.

As Arpana started her explanation of the procedure, I could feel tension gripping my back.  The procedure. The process. Everything in the ashram had a procedure, a process, a way of doing It. Whatever the It was. There was obviously a right-way to change the sheets on a bunk bed.

Her voice was level and calm, as she stood in the middle of the room. A short woman with a glowing abundance of curly dark hair, her exuberance was tempered by a touch of spiritual grace, I imagined. OH, if she loved me, then I would be okay.

I didn’t, couldn’t, wasn’t able to take in most of her explanation. I was too busy trying to figure out how to do it on my own.

She asked:

“Does anybody have any questions?” I certainly didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“Okay, divide into your pairs. Claim a section of the room. And let’s get going.”

I hopped onto the top bunk, ready to go. I looked down at the sheets to be replaced—oh! So complicated, a fitted sheet (bastards!) and a top sheet. Two damn sheets per bed. Oye. I felt my face flame. I didn’t know how.

It started with sniffles. The sniffing got caught in my chest and multiplied. One renegade sob broke loose, and I found myself heaving to contain the others, those sobs, wanting to exit my body. I lost the battle. I collapsed on the damn top bunk bed in Room 342, sobbing, with loud, chesty sobs growing in volume.

My sobs filled the room. Arpana came over, climbed up to join me, put her hand on my shoulder, to console me, only to intensify the sobs.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, with all the kindness on the planet.

Unable to talk, I managed syllables:

“I….do-n’t….kn—ow—h—o–w,” followed by a giant wail.

I will never forget her response:

“Of course you don’t know how. You’re not supposed to know how. We’re here to learn.”

Once spoken, this lifelong pattern of expecting myself to know what I don’t know, this pattern of trying to hide that from everybody and pretending I did know, flashed before me.

Things changed from that moment forward. Incrementally and slowly, of course. But insight shined its light.

Arpana called my teammates around me. They did a little prayer circle, extending their palms toward me, as my sobs slowed, as the snot coming from my nose lessened.

Their affirmation for me was:

“You, Aruni, you are learning how.

You, Aruni, you are learning how.”

I made those damn beds.

And I’m still learning.

It’s not over yet.

~~~

Asking for help is—?

Too hard?

Too revealing?

Too intimate?

My compulsive pattern of pushing through alone has followed me for decades and decades. It’s not gone-gone, but this is what I know to be true today—this is what I practice today—this is what I believe today:

• Permission to be human is fully granted by the universe.
• Not knowing how is inevitable and fine.
• Asking for help—still edgy for me—is a muscle I am slowly developing.

And you, dear friends.

Do you easily ask for help?

Do you push through alone?

What’s your relationship to getting and receiving support?

~~~

Music. Here’s a good one, and pretty dang relevant for these wild and wacky days—

One Love by Bob Marley

Featuring Manu Chao

Playing for Change

~~~

Here is a modified version of the Third Step Prayer from Anonymous Fellowships:

Please release us

From the bondage of self.

 

Take away our difficulties

Such that victory over them

Might bear witness to those

That we might help

Of Your Power,

Your Help,

And

Your Way of Life.

 

As best we can,

May we do

Your Will

Always.

 

May all beings benefit from our shared words.

 

Stay blessed,

Aruni

~~~

Time to Ask for Help?

 

Spring is here. Sort of.

Summer is coming. Eventually.

Much is shifting.

Unfolding.

Changing.

It’s a good time to ask for help.

Please consider Mindfulness Life Coaching.

You know me.

I know you.

Do you want to talk?

Information Here

 

~~~
And you, dear friends?

Does repetition have a place in your life?
Habit?
Patterns?
Practices?

What quiets your anxiety?
What returns you back
To grounded-ness?

What forms has Hallelujah taken your life?
~~~
For the constriction.
For the anxiety.
For the breathlessness.

We are grateful—
Eventually
And
Inevitably.

Give us
The courage
And the strength
To outlive
Our reaction
To the moment.

May we find our way home.

Home, 
To 
Spaciousness,
To breath,
To belly,
To wise,
Wise
Hope.

Blessings—all,
Aruni

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dwayne Wade, basketball player-extraordinaire, offers these words to his 15-year-old trans daughter. Who just legally became Zaya…

“As your father, all I’ve wanted to do was get it right,” he said.

“I’ve sat back and watched how gracefully you’ve taken on the public scrutiny, and even though it’s not easy, I watched you walk out of that house every morning as yourself.

I admire how you’ve handled the ignorance in our world. I admire what you face every day.

As your father, my job isn’t to create a version of myself or direct your future, my role is to be a facilitator to your hopes, your wishes, and your dreams,” Dwyane continued.

“Zaya, you’ve made me a better human just simply by being who you were born to be – a baby girl, Zaya Wade.”

Words of Dwanye Wade

~~~
Softening into
The obstacles.

Befriending them.
Learning
From
Them.

Perhaps
Even
Welcoming
Them…

Meeting them
With love.

~~~
And….

Some music for our souls:

Playing for Change, Playing for Peace