I think that if we were a little more ourselves and little less the people we think our peers want us to be, we might come quite close to knowing what whole feels like.
Just a thought that’s been roaming around this ever-tumultous mind.
Speaking of which . . . the other day, while administering needles into my naked bum, my acupuncturist says to me, “You must slow down. Your brain is always three steps ahead of your body.” Out loud, I murmured a noncommittal assent and pledged to try and downshift more often; however, in my three-steps-ahead-mind, I thought, “Lady, you have no idea.” (I think she heard me, though, because the next needle went deeeep.)
Do you relate? Is this you, too? Or do you fall in the other category? Body before brain, takes it as it comes, falls asleep the second cheek meets pillow. If this is you, congratulations and I apologize; because this post is not so much for you; however, take heart in knowing that you are likely a less complicated, well-rounded, stable individual. I invite you to enjoy this little blurp about us crazy people who think and think and think, and then take a moment to think about why on earth we are thinking so darn much.
Oh, if I could turn it off I would, believe me. But, this is how God made me and so I must accept even those traits I sometimes wish I could exchange for finer qualities — this is, essentially, what I mean about not feeling whole. When we constantly wish our character away, it’s as if we slap ourselves in the face. This mutilation happens during self-deprecation and intense self-analyzation. Stop these things. Right now; they are no good for you. Recognize the times, places, and people you are with when these thoughts occur and obliterate them. Not the actual people themselves, of course, because that’s a felony in most states. You could wind up in a penitentiary, or worse, solitary confinement, and that is quite counterproductive to the task at hand, yes?
But let’s talk about that for a minute. People, that is; the ones who, perhaps unknowingly, are responsible for these “episodes” I call them. And I call them that because they truly display and act much in the same way a seizure behaves, needing only the tiniest bit of fodder and spark to succeed in igniting a maelstrom of doubt, insecurity, and sometimes even a confusing self-loathing.
These are people, they are the ones we can never seem to impress, or worse, are repulsed by our endeavor to impress. Either we are pathetic, or they are apathetic, and both will most certainly drive a person to the precipice of insanity. In fact, I’ve visited enough times now that I’ve decided to purchase real-estate and am shortly on my way toward equity.
No. but seriously, try as I might to prepare myself, I cannot seem to avoid an episode every now and then, and usually they occur around the same people, or in the same situations, where therein lie some duplicitous allure or twisted magnetism in which I am reeled, like a fish to the rusted hook. This is because, within us all, exists the innate desire to please, to meet approval, to dazzle and charm, or to simply . . . be liked. Deny this if you feel it necessary, but it is true. Our humanity is strung up on a clothesline, where flailing things and study objects, simultaneously, flap and remain secure. I’m drawing an image here, stay with me.
We are better and wiser for acknowledging this truth; a precarious awareness is shades lighter than dim ignorance.
So, think of your insides as a wardrobe — your feelings, your thoughts, everything that makes you you exposed for the world to see. Again, this is for those of us that, quite literally it would seem, wear our hearts on our sleeves. So there we are, strung up by clothespins, anchored to a foundation both sturdy and firm. There are variables, however, unexpected ones: a gale-force wind, rapacious hands that yank and tear, scorching heat. These things we must endure along the way, but can we not protect ourselves?
Well, I believe that differs for each individual. I, for one, am one of those masochistic souls who cannot help but try one . . . more . . . time. The outcome, I know, is already determined, and Einstein’s words ring loudly in my ear: “The definition of stupidity is doing the same exact thing and expecting a different result.” I know this. I know all of this, but I cannot stop. I blame my thinker. You see, it’s my thinker that tells me maybe this time I’ll win ’em over, maybe this time they’ll come aware of that irresistible magnanimity I possess and want to know me, even if just a little. It’s a trap. And it’s one I both set and trip.
Why? Why do we do this?
To be completely honest, I am not entirely sure. I’ll have to think about it. (Did you catch that?)
For me, it’s usually three-fold: it begins with setting up goals and expectations, absurd ones mind you. Some consideration is put into how that person or peoples might be best won over. Then finally, it’s execution time. The double-entendre is well-suited for the scene, because, really I only execute myself when trying to be anything other than who I am. Taming my crude not-at-the-table humor, sharing scintillating excerpts of the world’s most interesting ongoings, or even just the simple act of speaking less — all these contrived motions separate me, drive a wedge between body and soul. The worse part: it never works. Not really. By all outward appearances it may seem as though you’ve sustained a victory, but then again you did so by being less of you, and how is that winning? This realization hurts only a little more than the moment the lie pointed its finger at you.
Hopefully I haven’t lost you . . . when I sat down to write today, I hadn’t thought about what I wanted to say. I am flying off the cuff here, my brain both interpreting and understanding this conundrum, presently.
What I’ve learned is that not all poisons don labels alerting consumers of their potential fatality. Some poisons wear smiles. Others smell very, very good. Sometimes, though we claim to only want to look, just a peek; and it is in that fleeting glimpse we collide with our ruin.
Know this: everything, all that is ever important will always confide in your heart long before your body or brain begins make sense of it. It is both map and compass.
The human heart. Ah, of this subject I am fascinated to no end. Its beauty, its power, its limitless capacity for courage, love, hope, passion. Oh, how I wish I could make you understand. I wish I could make me understand! Sometimes I wish I could curl around the center of me and just hold on and never let go . . .
This I do know; no heart is created equal. If you’ve ever seen a labyrinth you will know what I am saying. Our hearts our mazes, leading us to undisclosed destinations, guiding us half-sighted toward that which fills us, toward wholeness. And to be anything, anything but you, is a devastation beyond bearing. Heedless hands did not indifferently piece you together. You were made, fearfully and wonderfully, the only you to ever be you. Your unique ability to love is the seed from which you grow. Bury that seed, and you invite death’s pan and broom to your doorstep.
I suspect the day we — I — discover how important we are, is the day we need not search for meaning any longer. We will have uncovered His secret.
May your ears hear unspoken truths and comprehend complex simplicities.
Happy Saturday to you,