I'm listening to my inner, dispassionate therapist voice, and I hate it. But I know I need to sit here and listen right now—and watch the candle flicker through the red glass tiles of this votive holder handcrafted by a woman in India. Both she and I journey to a much-needed place of calm—not the imperative “Calm down!” Miss Ya-dah uttered with her voice-from-on-high authority as we piled into the classroom with mounds of smelly boots, soggy mittens, and wet snowpants. Nope. Didn't work then. Doesn't work now. There aren't any magic words out there to switch off chaos and switch on calm. Although a mantra or two can help. . .and a little Emmylou on the side. But mostly, I move through the valley of the shadow of self-soothing so I can listen to this quieted voice sometimes. . .and God. . .at least until I figure some stuff out.Then, of course, I want to believe that I've got it ALL figured out. I like to feel good about that. It would be so pleasant if life worked out the way I want it to. I could walk around like a clean little God-dispenser. [You know, a Pez dispenser with perfectly shaped God capsules. Oh, that flavor doesn't work for you today. . .here, let me give you another, my dear.] Anyway, if I can get it all figured out, I could know that I'm balanced and whole and. . .should I say this out loud. . .RIGHT. It's so hard to absorb the truth when I've contributed to the junk too—and to get to that place in the middle of some big hairy deal. I find myself leaving THAT moment and focusing on what I wish were true instead of returning to the mess. . .morass. . .moraine [okay, so indulge my love of words—you don't have to look them up. . .I'm trying to say we're poking our way through the geological equivalent of navigating an avalanche in a swamp].
Hmmmm. . . . why do I cling so hard to the revised, standard version of reality?
