Stories We Tell Ourselves

I'm not _____________ enough. Fill in the blank.

On ten different days, you might come up with ten different words for that blank. But, chances are, there are a couple words that always come up in the stories about yourself that you hold as truths.

Me?

I'm not artistic enough. Not outstanding enough. Not disciplined enough.

When I was a Freshman in high school, I took an Art class that made a huge impression on me. My weathered teacher looked like a cross between a female Dick Van Dyke and a stork. She was a disheveled, kooky mess, and I loved her. I loved the media she exposed us to, the exercises she had us do, and I was enthused and proud of the work I made in class.

But, I wasn't Paul.

He was prodigiously talented. So much so, the school administration asked him to paint a wall-sized mural outside the main office. In piercing teenage angst, I felt, 'I must not be as talented. My art isn't that good. I'm not a "natural" like Paul, and I guess I never will be.'

Boy, I wish I could take my 14-year-old self aside and rewrite that script right there!

So, last week, a dear former collaborator contacted me about helping out on a project, and I felt myself facing a gaping rabbit hole of old stories.

I'm a better manager-type than artist. I am talented - at recognizing talent. I'm not focused enough with this blogging thing. But, I can see where she's going. She's so talented. I can help her...

Don't forget, I have this Benjamin Franklin disposition thing going, too: changeable, disparate interests, passionately pursued.

The urge to play out a familiar story was strong. No, not strong, automatic.

The details have always been variable, but the common theme underneath so many of my choices in the past has been that I'm not __________ enough. Holy crap, that's not helpful, is it?

I've learned (more than once, twice, okay several times), kicking and screaming, that this is not a narrative that serves my spirit's fullest growth. This perspective leads to a pattern I do not want to continue, and it will not bring out the best in me going forward.

I must choose to change the story. I will. I'm in charge of my perception of reality here.

It took me a week to sort myself out, but I stepped back from the rabbit hole. It was a struggle for me. I adore this collaborator, but I declined.

Here's my fresh story:

I am a kickass manager-type, and I am talented at recognizing talent, but that's not all. I am making space here on this blog to expand myself artistically and express my voice. I am all kinds of enough.

What's a story that you're ready to change?

The Time I Cried at the Bank

Hello, February in Minnesota.

I want to feel at peace inside, all the time.

I think this the day after I have one of those depressive “cloudy” days when I wake up feeling panicked for no reason. The despondency is oppressive, and it’s related to no particular trigger.

I am so tired of this pattern.

Mentally, I know the storm will pass, it always does. But, the urge to burst into tears doesn’t diminish. I feel foolish, hopeless, and embarrassed. I don’t want anyone to know that, for no reason, I feel like I’m falling apart inside.

I’m waiting on a deposit slip at the bank’s drive-up window when I call my mom. She’s hosting out of town guests, and they’re finishing up breakfast. I chat with her about their visit while I wrestle with my inner self.

Don’t intrude on her friend time. Don’t be a drama mama. You and your cycles are so repetitive. Why don’t you just suck it up and let her get off the phone and back to her guests?

I blurt out, “Remember I’ve told you about my cloudy days?”

She’s been waiting for the real reason I’m calling, “Yes.”

“I’m having one.” Cue: a fat burst of tears.

At this very moment, the bank teller cheerily alerts me that my receipt is coming, and to have a nice day!

I swipe at tears to focus on driving out of the parking lot without killing anyone.

My kickass Alaskan blue anorak.

I’ve burst the dam, and a torrent of negative thoughts and desperate feelings flows out. I let them tumble over my lips, but I know from experience that I don’t really want to dive in to any single one of them.

What’s really getting to me today is the recurrent nature of my bad weather.

I mean, I take medication for this shit. And, it’s helped.

But, here I am all the same.

Why do these days return? Where’d my inner peace go? Why am I weak like this?

What if one of my storms never lets up? That’d be hard to live with.

My mom asks me to think of something I am grateful for. Not in a shaming way; just to wrest my attention from one spigot of thoughts to a different one.

I am sitting at a stop light. I sniff and wipe my eyes again. The day is sunny and face-slapping cold, but I am warm in my fur-trimmed, bright blue woolen Alaskan anorak.

“I have an awesome coat. I live in the frigid Great North, and I have a badass coat.”

She laughs. So do I. Thank God for her.

“I want you to focus on finding a moment today to say or do something nice for someone. It can be as simple as a smile. You might be the only person to make eye contact with that person today. You don’t know how you might lift someone up, and that’s meaningful.”

— My Mom

Her words calm me like a buoy I’ve found while drowning.

A little bit of meaning on a hopeless-feeling day? I’ll take it. Create a small moment of service or connection to another? I can do this.

I’ve got a mission for the day, and it is a toe-hold on a ledge of inner peace.

But, I want inner peace, all the time.

Yep. Sigh. How about a little rewording?

I want inner peace, day by day.

Wholly Spirited

My soul is eternal. And, I am here, on Earth, full of love and peace, doubt and fear. I am individual, yet I am connected to all matter. I am a drop in the universe; I am the universe.

In the day to day, I wrestle with wanting to understand how the fabric of my life is unfolding, minute by minute. I want to know its design, the patterns of its threads, where it’s going - so, I can get it “right.”

This pattern of wanting to measure up, to be worthy of my life - I am learning to shed it. I want to live as the eternal spirit I am - wholly spirited - in my day to day life, and inspire others to do so, as well.