11.10.2005
Hand in my pocket...
What it all comes down to, is that I haven't got it all figured out just yet. I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is giving the peace sign. ~Alanis Morissette
As I walked through the fallen autumn leaves, my hands tucked neatly in my pocket, my destination nowhere, I once again contemplate my journey. Joy...what will it take? How long will it take? Can it actually be achieved?
I had spent the evening before wading through book after book—-from Gibran to Vanzant-—sampling specific instructions on how even I could live my best life. Later that night, while snuggled up on the sofa taking in a bit of the tube, the slogan for one of my favorite channels encouraged me to live like you mean it; within a matter of seconds the same station reminded me that eventually everything connects. Caught completely off guard I imediately pressed pause and sat in the moment. Minutes later I repeated the sudden epiphany over and over until finally it began to make sense: eventually everything connects.
A creature of habit, I can’t help but worry and contemplate and plot and wonder if all my doings will somehow yield the response I so desperately want to experience. In fact I spend most of my day worrying about something or another. Silly things. Simple things. Things most people would never admit to worrying about, but like me, find themselves worrying about nonetheless. Like whether or not my outfit is proper, or my walk is correct or my hair just so. Why just the other day I spent nearly a half-an-hour worrying about a pair of perfectly unworn shoes I suddenly believed were out of style. And what bothered me the most is that I like the shoes—-my anxiety was based on the fear of other people not liking the shoes. And as I sat there nerves frayed I began to see too clearly the error of my ways. My journey to joy will never amount to shit as long as I continue to live for, through, and by other people and their standards. Whose life is this anyway?
Still old habits die hard, and many never really die at all. They simply allow you your time and space to breathe and show back up stronger, and more determined than ever, the moment they sense you need them again. And like the addicts we are, we embrace ‘em with opened arms, happy to have our old friend back; happy to be comfortable again. Hence my addiction to junk food, perfection, and a whole host of other self-defeating behavior that both ran & ruined my life while somehow managing to feign pleasure.
There’s an old saying I love to quote: The more you know the more you’re responsible for. To that I add another: Once you know, you can never not know again. The journey to self is no easy task; the road is littered with exits filled with comfortable excuses. Excuses that allow one to regain entry into the world they once called life. But as the days steadily mount, and the desire to know myself becomes even more alluring, I continue, with my hands tucked neatly in my pockets, and my destination: somewhere truly fabulous.
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As I walked through the fallen autumn leaves, my hands tucked neatly in my pocket, my destination nowhere, I once again contemplate my journey. Joy...what will it take? How long will it take? Can it actually be achieved? I had spent the evening before wading through book after book—-from Gibran to Vanzant-—sampling specific instructions on how even I could live my best life. Later that night, while snuggled up on the sofa taking in a bit of the tube, the slogan for one of my favorite channels encouraged me to live like you mean it; within a matter of seconds the same station reminded me that eventually everything connects. Caught completely off guard I imediately pressed pause and sat in the moment. Minutes later I repeated the sudden epiphany over and over until finally it began to make sense: eventually everything connects.
A creature of habit, I can’t help but worry and contemplate and plot and wonder if all my doings will somehow yield the response I so desperately want to experience. In fact I spend most of my day worrying about something or another. Silly things. Simple things. Things most people would never admit to worrying about, but like me, find themselves worrying about nonetheless. Like whether or not my outfit is proper, or my walk is correct or my hair just so. Why just the other day I spent nearly a half-an-hour worrying about a pair of perfectly unworn shoes I suddenly believed were out of style. And what bothered me the most is that I like the shoes—-my anxiety was based on the fear of other people not liking the shoes. And as I sat there nerves frayed I began to see too clearly the error of my ways. My journey to joy will never amount to shit as long as I continue to live for, through, and by other people and their standards. Whose life is this anyway?
Still old habits die hard, and many never really die at all. They simply allow you your time and space to breathe and show back up stronger, and more determined than ever, the moment they sense you need them again. And like the addicts we are, we embrace ‘em with opened arms, happy to have our old friend back; happy to be comfortable again. Hence my addiction to junk food, perfection, and a whole host of other self-defeating behavior that both ran & ruined my life while somehow managing to feign pleasure.
There’s an old saying I love to quote: The more you know the more you’re responsible for. To that I add another: Once you know, you can never not know again. The journey to self is no easy task; the road is littered with exits filled with comfortable excuses. Excuses that allow one to regain entry into the world they once called life. But as the days steadily mount, and the desire to know myself becomes even more alluring, I continue, with my hands tucked neatly in my pockets, and my destination: somewhere truly fabulous.
