So much of my teen-to-early adult life was determined by lists and logic. I honed a practice of careful weighing of options, looking at the pros and cons, attempting to make the “right” choice. But reaching for what felt good, what felt like a natural expression and extension of my joy, felt like choices that hadn’t been considered carefully for diligence and defensibility. How does one measure “feeling good” on the list of pros and cons? It sounded indulgent, not responsible. I should not “waste time.”
And yet, as the decisions made by logic and responsibility stacked up, I became more and more of a hollow husk, a person trying to be a robot. My carefully laid, orderly decision making was in fact running desperately, breath heaving and on the edge of panic, from the fear of failure, that terrifying thought that I might be caught, that if I wasn’t efficient and careful I would find myself swallowed by the destructive and unstoppable tsunami waves of “not good enough.”
And now, like the morning after the storm, in the quiet calm after the rage of sky and sea, all is different. There is an ability to look around in wonder, to know that noticing the details of the natural world is lovely. That is what I did when I was ten, lost in books or sitting under a low branching tree in my backyard, watching water roll across the ground making new grooves, watching leaves fall and plants pop up from the earth like magic. And it is in the natural world that I see the impact of instincts and rhythms of nature playing out. The perfectly imperfect symmetry of the leaves scattering the ground in the fall or flowers in the spring. The plants that exist because the wind or bird poop carried their seed to that particular spot and the conditions for germination were favorable. Total chance. And not really, all at the same time.
So I am secretly allowing the question “does this make me feel better or worse” to creep higher on my list of priorities when making decisions. My fear was the decision maker before, but anonymously, hidden behind lists of reasons. Now I am beginning to choose joy, wonder, and decisions that feel exciting, not approvable. But, if asked to explain my reasons, it will sound a lot like I’m making them based on the color of the sky, the direction of the wind, the smell of my morning coffee, the pulse of the bass line of the song playing in my head.
— slowjamr
And yet, as the decisions made by logic and responsibility stacked up, I became more and more of a hollow husk, a person trying to be a robot. My carefully laid, orderly decision making was in fact running desperately, breath heaving and on the edge of panic, from the fear of failure, that terrifying thought that I might be caught, that if I wasn’t efficient and careful I would find myself swallowed by the destructive and unstoppable tsunami waves of “not good enough.”
And now, like the morning after the storm, in the quiet calm after the rage of sky and sea, all is different. There is an ability to look around in wonder, to know that noticing the details of the natural world is lovely. That is what I did when I was ten, lost in books or sitting under a low branching tree in my backyard, watching water roll across the ground making new grooves, watching leaves fall and plants pop up from the earth like magic. And it is in the natural world that I see the impact of instincts and rhythms of nature playing out. The perfectly imperfect symmetry of the leaves scattering the ground in the fall or flowers in the spring. The plants that exist because the wind or bird poop carried their seed to that particular spot and the conditions for germination were favorable. Total chance. And not really, all at the same time.
So I am secretly allowing the question “does this make me feel better or worse” to creep higher on my list of priorities when making decisions. My fear was the decision maker before, but anonymously, hidden behind lists of reasons. Now I am beginning to choose joy, wonder, and decisions that feel exciting, not approvable. But, if asked to explain my reasons, it will sound a lot like I’m making them based on the color of the sky, the direction of the wind, the smell of my morning coffee, the pulse of the bass line of the song playing in my head.
— slowjamr
Sounds as if you might have retired from a job within the last couple of years! Would that be the case? Or simply an evolution of spirit? Can you explain why a Lenten Rose (hellebore) plant just appeared in my backyard out of nowhere a few years ago and is still thriving? Pretty neat!
ReplyDelete(slowjamr responding) Trying to allow evolution of spirit WHILE still working (balancing act), but also re-emerging from a toxic relationship that ended a couple years ago, which was like retiring from a job, ha! I'm not familiar with that plant, but looked it up, it looks beautiful- enjoy!
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