Walking My Talk

I am a mess right now. Not a huge, incredible, horrible mess. Not a mess that conjures up images of broken light fixtures and dust bunnies and screen doors nearly falling off on their hinges (though that does more aptly describe the state of my house right now!) No, my mess is a bit tidier than this. My mess has been vacuumed recently. The sink is a bit dirty, but not too bad. The toilets are OK. It’s more untidy—there are papers everywhere and toys and clothes in various unkempt piles. It’s hard to find a pen. This is the kind of mess that accurately depicts my emotional and mental landscape. This is me—a slightly unkempt mess.

Why am I choosing to write about this right now? Particularly on a professional website, particularly when I am proposing that I might be someone who can help guide others out of their messes? Why would I post, for the world to see—that I am feeling off kilter right now?? Really, why?

I take a deep breath as I respond to my own question here. I want to cultivate some patience, some spaciousness. I want to be gentle with myself as a part of me—the wise, confident, and embodied part, responds to the worries of the more anxious, young, and fearful part. The reason I am blogging about my own personal mess is because THIS IS IT. This is what I have. This is where I am. This is the kind of healer that I am, the kind of therapist that I am, and most importantly, the kind of person that I am. In order to do the work, to really get in there and support and guide and facilitate healing for other people, I have to commit to “walking my talk.” It is scary and vulnerable for me to admit that I’m struggling right now. It feels so much better to walk around in a state of ease, or bliss, or confidence. It’s juicy and energizing and feeds my ego when my mind decides that I’ve provided a really good therapy session to someone, or taught a great dance class, or helped a friend, or been a fun-loving, patient parent on a given day. It feels crappy and low to say, “Wow, today I’m feeling really self-conscious. I’m not sure that I am any good at anything!” On days when I question my skill as a healer, a teacher, a mother, a wife, I experience the urge to hide or to turn away from the feelings, rather than touch them and look at them.

But here is the thing: those self-conscious, messy, difficult thoughts are just that—thoughts. They are part of my experience, part of the background noise, and they are real. Just as real as the thoughts telling me that I’m gifted or special or great. Just as real, and just as permeable and just as impermanent. All of the thoughts and emotions that I have are information. They are not solid, they are not unmoving. Sometimes they might be loud and feel sticky; sometimes I may spin off in anxiety about one thing or other. I might find myself attaching with deep conviction to a feeling or belief or storyline that I’ve created. In the end though, when I cultivate an attitude of curiosity towards myself, I find that the sticky parts are actually moving, and the thoughts, no matter how loud or intense or even painful—they are just thoughts.

So today my thoughts are a bit messy, and they seem to have taken on the grey hue of the Rochester sky. That is where I am right now, in this moment. However, I find that as I type these words and imagine putting them into cyberspace for all to see, a subtle shift happens. As I turn my attention towards my state of mind, and just let it be; as I name it and own it and accept it and put it out there, I find that mess seems less pervasive. It’s almost as if someone came in and made some nice neat piles for me to go through. The doubting voice of the inner-critic becomes a bit quieter. My thoughts slow down a bit, my breath rests deeper in my chest and my posture softens. Just this simple exercise has offered me some ease. Of course, I was not at my messiest to begin with today, so who knows what will happen when I need a thorough deep clean. I know that when the moment arrives (and the moments to practice always arrive—the big huge messy days where our hearts are heavy and our minds are completely obscured with clouds)—when that moment comes, the only way out is through it. If I want to live the way that I say I want to live, if I want to really and truly support others on this journey, then the only thing I can do is to go deeper and take myself on. 

If these words resonate with you in any way, I invite you to find your own version of this practice and give it a shot. You never know what might emerge.