Let Yourself In

If it’s just me, it’s hard to see the details, and hard to zoom out my own lens outside myself. It’s hard to stand outside of me and watch me feel the things I feel inside. It’s hard to see my face in selfies that I take and to see my true expression in the smiles that I fake when I am trying to trick myself that I am not upset; that I can’t even get mad; that the reality is that I don’t feel anything and I make myself believe that this is true.

When I see someone else in pain, especially in a group or a community setting, their pain overwhelms me. I find myself swimming in it, in their collective woe, I am drenched in emotion, uncertain where I end and where others begin. I want to fight for them. I am angry to the depths of my bones. My bone-marrow boils inside of me, because someone else is being mistreated now, and I – I can see it with my eyes. It’s like a film, and I am connecting with the characters. The people are beautiful and weak like little shrubs blowing in the wind and I want to save them from their pain.

Their pain, it makes me so uncomfortable, and I want it to stop. But my own personal anguish, it is asleep somewhere; it is nowhere to be seen. It is not under my desk or in my jacket pocket, no, that is not where it is. I am numb to my own pain, perhaps is for self-preservation. Perhaps, the pain is having a very explosive reaction right inside; right behind some secret door. And it’s waiting for me to slow down enough to find this door, to find this door and break it down so the pain can come out and be seen. The pain would fly out and settle in the room around me like every feeling I ever tried to hide from had a face. Their faces would now be visible to me and could get acquainted with them. Each expression would tell me a story about when I pretended not to see it; why I pretended not to notice the event that happened.

Everything would become clear if each feeling had a face that’s tangible, a face separate from my own. And I can see these inner faces and love them; love them like I love the painful faces of other people. For now, I know the only way inside is from within. It’s frightening to close your eyes and look away from everyone else’s story; everyone else’s movie. But how can I meet all these invisible faces, if I won’t even let myself in.

Different and Weak

Gym was always a class I dreaded as a kid. Not only was I clumsy and not very good at sports, but I was forced to participate in team sports; forced to be on teams that didn’t want me there.

Yes, picking teams was the worst part of the day. It was usually for kickball or volleyball. Each day, it was me or Anna that got picked last, and it was worse when Anna was absent. I stood there, feeling shamed, staring down at my black sneakers, hoping that this day would be different from the rest; that maybe this classmate choosing people would finally notice me. I kept waiting and waiting to be seen. But it would always be the same. Sometimes there was an odd number of students and the teacher was forced to make the choice on their behalf. I stood there as he decided my fate and as the selected team sighed heavily when I was sent over to join them.

Those days, they didn’t want me because I was weak and I was different. I wasn’t good at kicking the ball and the opposing team would usually catch it right away. Sometimes, this made me relieved, because I didn’t have to run. Nowadays, I often feel relief when I don’t have to do something risky either.

Nowadays, I am still weak and different as I was back then, but I choose to label myself as vulnerable and creative instead. Now when someone does not want to choose me, I take a deep breath and choose myself instead.

I embrace my weakness, knowing that my vulnerability creates space for others to be vulnerable with me too. I’m shy and because of my shyness, others don’t have to be afraid of feeling shy too. My shyness flows and blend with other parts of me; like watercolor or emotions it comes on thick and then washes out into a translucent tint. Because I am different, I am okay with trying different things. I already labeled as different, so I might as well be creative about it. This otherness has opened a different world for me, a world that I had to create in order to fit in somewhere. It is an imaginary world, but I love it and tap into it when I feel like creating something new. I draw and write from this space.

Different and weak were once flows that I felt ashamed of, but now I know that that shame is not me. The world breathes in beauty now, and I am no longer afraid to choose myself even if someone else cannot see me.

Word Salad

There are so many to choose from: salad dressings. Fancy disguises for tasteless situations they make life a little bit better than it actually is. Or do they? French or Italian, but maybe Ranch is the choice of the evening. We dress up our salads to please those overactive taste buds. What else do we dress up to please a part of us that’s been overactive?

Maybe we dress up our language, so that no one gets offended. What if we say the wrong thing, and the listener has to process that data when we are long gone; home in bed perhaps. Do we drench our words with paint to make them prettier. I guess it is hard being honest all the time when you end up worrying about how someone else is going to feel.

Sometimes it gets worse. Comedy can end in tragedy. You attempt to make light of a complicated situation by making some jokes. This totally backfires, because of your overly dark sense of humor, and you are the one who ends up feeling like an ass.

Ha, and what about the times when you are speaking to your boss in a meeting. That calls for some language modification. This is when you have to reach up your sleeve for those horrible adjectives you hate so much. Show, don’t tell, you remember your 10th grade English teacher explain, but you still go ahead and embellish.

We all are most likely guilty of these faux pas, especially when we’re drinking. And I wonder if it’s even more difficult to be direct for someone with an English degree. I mean we read all of those gentile writings for a reason. There is so much that must be said that we forget there are some things better left unsaid.

Sometimes a stare into the eyes of another says everything. You can just dwell in that moment as long as you can; until the person blinks I mean – at least. Just stand there in silence without all of those embellishments and maybe listen to the raw sound of life just presenting itself to you.

A Life Companion

So, you’re feeling lonely, and you decide that you can help yourself feel better while helping someone else find a home. I’m talking about adopting a pet. You put on your favorite scarf, lace up your boots and drive over to the local shelter or animal rescue. There you make an instant connection with a certain cat or dog, and soon you are watching Game of Thrones together on the sofa. You feel like a piece of your incomplete puzzle has been rescued, and you both feel a sense of belonging. You accept each other, even with all your flaws. Life is good!

If only the process was the same when it came to adopting a human, well I mean, a mate of your very own. Imagine visiting the local pub, and there you see a group of guys or gals waiting to be adopted by you. You spend, let’s say, forty-five minutes, nursing a glass of Merlot and suddenly you meet the warm brown eyes of the perfect stranger. In that instant, you both make up your minds that you would be willing to share the sofa, maybe even the front porch while you drink your morning coffee.

Wait a second, no, adopting a human seems like so much more of a commitment. For one, humans typically live to around 75 at least. Dogs or cats usually make it until somewhere in the teens. Sure a typical pet wants to be nurtured, taken out for walks maybe, and might enjoy an expensive grain-free diet, but a human has needs. The family dog may require some scratching behind the ears, but a human needs to be held and caressed.

So yes, Joe from the pub looks just right. You take him home, and he tests out your sofa. To his surprise, the sofa is nothing like what he imagined it would be. It is quite small and a bit too soft. His bottom sinks into it, as he tries to make himself comfortable, while you’re in the kitchen microwaving some nachos for the welcome party. You hop onto the sofa, and your hips gently nudge Joe’s. He grabs a cheesy chip and the cheese gets under his fingernails. He licks his fingers.

It’s almost midnight, and you end up watching some shitty indie film about a middle-aged woman who has a hard time falling in love. Joe develops a backache from your overused sofa, and decides to call it a night. He does not want to finalize the adoption just yet, says he needs to explore his options. He apologizes for wiping his cheesy hands on one of the accent pillows. You sigh wishing you had an open bottle of wine, or something to make yourself a little giddy before bed, then end up laying down on the sofa making plans to visit the local animal shelter in the morning.

Running on Empty

I attend Tai Chi class every Monday evening, and I always get surprised about how well or how messy my moves turn out. I go there with no expectations, but at some points during class I either start feeling self-conscious or sometimes a little arrogant. In the end, I always feel satisfied with whatever result, as after two hours of practice, I finally recall that it is about the journey.

Tai Chi class is like a replica of a mini life, which I get the opportunity to relive each week. I learn and forget to get lost in the movement, and then I remember again. Thoughts are scattered through my mind and the wind inside of me blows them away. I flow, I make mistakes and laugh about them. I kick my legs into the air as my muscles hold me. I am balanced and could fall at any moment if I lose my focus.

I am always learning and unlearning. Bruce Lee said, “Empty your cup so that it may be filled; become devoid to gain totality”. I am learning more when I come to class without expectations and don’t put too much pressure on myself. Those are the best days. The days when I enter as a new student, open to corrections, not afraid of being confused. Those days bring the greatest rewards and most surprises.

And so, I attempt to use this concept in my daily tasks. I wake up telling myself that I am open to what the universe has in store for me that day. I try not to predict how things will go, I take it slow. I remind myself that I don’t know everything, that even if I have vast knowledge of a certain subject, there is always something there I haven’t seen.

When I don’t have heavy expectations from myself, I don’t take myself so seriously. When things don’t go smoothly, I don’t have a preconceived reason to blame myself. I am gentler and can relax into the discomfort.

When something good occurs, I can feel the wonder with so much more intensity when it is a surprise. I feel like a kid again, as I laugh with amazement at how the universe makes everything fall into place without us knowing.

Blessing in Disguise

When we get triggered, the first emotion that usually comes up to the surface feels like anger. I heard someone say recently that anger usually comes up, because anger is the easiest emotion to feel. It sounds like a more valid feeling, than sadness that is sometimes frowned upon. No pun intended, well maybe. Today, I got unexpectedly triggered during a conversation with my mother.

Intense anger pulsated through my body, and my first instinct was to try to deflect it by reading or going for a walk, but I decided to do a little scavenger hunt instead. I lay on my bed and wondered how I can dive deeper into the anger to uncover what was the actual emotion behind the trigger.

The anger kept growing and growing like a balloon being inflated, and it was like I disappeared for a moment.

Suddenly I saw the number “2” written on a small piece of paper. When the picture became clearer, I realized it was my grade book from grammar school. In Poland, “2” was the equivalent of an “F”. I realized that the feeling hiding behind the anger was linked to my attachment to this story. It is a story of ashamed little girl that was supposed to flunk three or four years in a row, but somehow managed to move up to the next grade thanks to her highly influential parents.

The other kids in her class knew that she was supposed to stay back for another year and were always surprised to see her get promoted along with them. The little girl felt very ashamed that she could not please her classmates, teachers, or her parents. She felt so ashamed that she carried unknowingly carried this feeling all her life.

I lay the bed and the anger started wrapping all around my intestines, hugging my stomach, liver, and spleen. I watched the story unfold in my mind, and the images transmuted the feeling into its rightful owner: shame. I took deep breaths hitting my stomach, then my heart with oxygen at fast speed, and I started coughing, coughing up the shame.

I said, “I release this shame.” I kept repeating this, and the pressure released a little with each time.

I imagined myself first erasing the grades on that report card and later deleting the story. The shame we carry is a silent shame, but it attaches itself to everything. We could sit there and feel ashamed of our own thoughts that no one else can even hear. It just sneaks in, sabotaging moments in life where you just want to be spontaneous and free. It is so hard to catch when it’s so often in disguise, and so sometimes I am grateful for these triggers, even though they may ruin a perfectly good Friday night.

Taking Steps

Yesterday, I watched the first dragonfly of the season jet over the giant puddle in the parking lot. The buzzy transformer was bright blue, like the morning sky. In many cultures around the world, the dragonfly symbolizes change, transformation and growth. We are now also in the heart of Spring, and the world around us has already practically blossomed, shedding its wintry gloom.

All morning, before my walk, I was dealing with racing thoughts, trying to breathe through them, and dropping into my heart instead. I drop into my heart and the negative thoughts shed like pollen all around me. The essence lingers there, it’s difficult to escape. They are fearful thoughts full of uncertainty and despair. I dive into my heart loving them for what they are, one moment at a time.

The dragonfly today reminded me that even though it seems like the journey is steep and sometimes I forget the steps, I know that this is where I’m supposed to be. I don’t have to judge myself so much, because I know that I am trying my best now.

Controlling thoughts is almost like trying to control people. It doesn’t work. I cannot manipulate my mind into thinking up different stories, and so I let it ramble on. I leave the chatter there but turn down the volume. I understand that it is just a podcast of my insecurities playing on repeat and remind myself that the point isn’t about coming up with solutions.

I breathe deeper into my heart, knowing that my fears are slowing flaking off and Summer will be here before we know it. I look forward to seeing more dragonflies doing their work, glistening in the sun – waiting for us to notice how far we’ve come.

Heavy Machinery

Does it seem wrong to compare a tired, aging woman to an old washing machine? Her hips seem rusty as they are carried by her legs around the room. Those hips through which babies traveled out of her womb now move with difficulty. Someone calls her name, Susan, and she spins around slowly like a washing machine full of water and sweaters and jeans. She feels heavy, her arms dangle lifelessly next to her large pink camisole filled with breasts. Her voice sounds raspy, like she’s a teacher who’s been yelling at her students all day.

She is inside there in that mechanical body, I can see that in her nervous eyes. She speaks and wants to get her point across, says something about varsity jackets for the marching band. I only half-listen; along with the other parents at the meeting I keep staring at the clock.

My foot is shaking and lightly tapping against the floor. I think about how impossible it would be to have to be a high school student again right now. I quickly erase those thoughts and continue staring at the women in the room; the aged ageless women, for I can’t tell how old they are. They are watching me too. We women observe each other and compare each other’s skin, the tired dark circles around our eyes. “Are mine as big as hers?”

I’m thinking about the appliances again and the old washing machine. Are we appliances? I see sad, tired appliances all around. Appliances that have been dedicated to serving their children and husbands but have let themselves go. I think their warranties have expired probably, I wonder about mine. Then, I hear the washing machine again, the meeting is adjourned, and we step out of the school into the pouring rain.

Underneath the Carpet

You have the ability to surprise yourself when you least expect it. It’s like when you buy a new apartment with shaggy 1970’s carpeting, only to discover shiny hardwood floors underneath. This is the same way you start shining, once all the crap that you have been hiding behind finally falls off.

Yeah, take off that cozy blanket of excuses and be the person you were meant to be. It’s a strange feeling knowing that the hardwood floor was there all along, but you were walking on that outdated, stained, let’s make it orange, carpet. You were selling yourself short, and now you realized how beautiful you are. You really felt your capabilities sink into that head of yours, and you didn’t feel small anymore.

It’s like someone turned on the light in a dark room, it is so dramatic to feel the contrast of what you felt before inside your body. You felt uncertain about it a few days ago, and you thought self-love was just an elusive subject people posted about on Instagram. After years of searching for yourself, today something clicked, and out of the shadows you appeared.

It’s like the missing piece of the puzzle was mysteriously inserted in the gaping hole. Your body felt fulfilled and relaxed. You just sat there with yourself, and it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, because you had you. You didn’t need that guy that didn’t like you back, and didn’t care about he boss that just deflected the blame on you. The bills that were piling up in your virtual statements did not matter either, because they were not you. All the opinions of everyone who said them did not bother you either, because they didn’t stick to your skin. And in that unexpected moment you felt free, and you hoped it would last.

Maybe It’s Just Me

Sometimes after yoga, the feeling of emptiness and relief is so overwhelming that it actually makes me worry. I go through the twists and bending poses, bend deeply into the hip openers and focus on my breath. I start the process feeling heavy with a full plate of the day’s thoughts. I try my best to surrender to the poses, even when my body doesn’t fully cooperate.

When I finally settle into savasana, I feel like a towel that has been wrung out in both directions. I lay there thankful for my body and for the many self-judgements I abandoned on the mat that day.

I continue with the rest of my day feeling at peace, feeling empty. I am not actively thinking about the things I can’t control. I am no longer trying to find strategies to solve problems that possibly only really exist in my mind. I feel free not only mentally but my body feels more spacious. My spine feels like each vertebrae has just a tiny bit more room, the nerves under my skin feel restful.

I am left relaxing in my movements like an empty boat in the lake on a windless afternoon. This emptiness makes me feel uncomfortable, because my mind is used to searching for a problem to solve. My mind is not used to the silence, and it’s like I can see that it is desperately trying to revive some issue to focus on. It thinks that we cannot be inspired to create art without some pressure.

I start feeling pressured to make art; my ego needs art to feel validation. Creating art of course brings me much pleasure and satisfaction. It is almost like baking. I love mixing the ingredients, adding some drama here and a little sadness along the edges here and there. Sometimes I feel that yoga takes the edge off a little too much, like something more than just the day’s stress gets lost in the process. But maybe it’s just me….