It’s Saturday morning, and my mind, heart, and spirit were shackled to some messy events from the work week.
During my morning meditation and journaling, thoughts of the situation intruded mercilessly. The more they intruded, the more I got sucked into the story, planning revenge for my wounded thoughts and feelings. The more I got sucked into the story, the more I resisted the fact that I was sucked into the story. The more I resisted, the more intrusive it became. That's the cycle of internal violence, in a nutshell.
Three pages into journaling, I passionately scribbled prayers for Wisdom to help me untangle these knots. The words were flowing from the pen rapidly, intensely. There was no space for Wisdom to chime in and respond. I recognized that eventually, and took a breath and stopped writing. I honestly didn't want to take a breath and stop writing, because I wasn't ready to give up the story--it had a hard hold on me, and I on it.
But I knew I needed to breathe more (Thanks, Wisdom). I needed to look out the window at the cheerful spring sunshine. I needed to tend to myself. I calmed. I breathed. It took a while of this calming intervention to simmer me down, but simmer down I did.
Once simmered, I remembered that this upsetting situation is an opportunity. As usual. It’s an opportunity to practice all the skills, lessons, and tools of yoga. By practicing when things are running smoothly, the tools are readily available for the crisis moments. Practice is easy when it’s easy. When it’s hard, that’s when the real healing happens.
This recognition immediately solved Problem Number 1 (which is almost always the only actual problem): the resistance softened and dissipated. Resistance fans the fire of suffering.
From there, I could be grateful for yet another opportunity to practice kindness, honesty, and generosity towards the a-holes who created this problem. (me included! But I don’t want to be an a-hole. In fact, I often joke that if there is ever a tombstone with my name on it, I simply want it to say, “She was not an a-hole.”)
I could practice surrendering to the story, in all its gruesome details, and discover that all the gruesome details are simply the ways we humans suffer. It is nothing personal to anyone, not even to ourselves.
And of course, I could study myself. I could see how my own walls popped up; how my control issues impossibly wanted to re-create reality; how I (stupidly and insanely) wanted to take things personally that have nothing to do with me; and how I made assumptions about the choices other people make.
I can’t help but be grateful to life, for providing this shit show.
I get to practice breathing.
I get to practice opening, by examining all the illusions that have me contracted.
I get to practice returning to this one sweet, complete moment.
All is well.
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