~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Hour by hour, the lake’s music softens
and slows. The songbirds have gone,
taking their whistles and chirps
to warmer climes, and with them,
the buzzing insects. Now, little more
than the rustling of leaves remains,
an autumn lullaby floating across
the still waters, whispering
the season’s Gloria in hushed
and reverent tones. I stand
on the banks, barely breathing,
and my heart sings its own amen.
The mornings are bathed in fog now
as if the earth were filling her bowls
with some luminescent porridge
to help the sun ward off the autumn chill.
It softens our wakings, letting us linger
a while in the world of wispy dreams
before the illusions of the day solidify
around us, pulling us once more
into the stories of the plays that are our lives.
The oranges and golds of the remaining maple leaves
gleam in the filtered light, bright reminders
that we may play out our stories with lustiness and joy.
You, magnificent maple, are the essence of delight.
To stand inside your sun-filled arms
is to banish every residue of sadness,
every wish for something other than
this shimmering slice of now.
Your lemony leaves sing the music
that I have so longed to hear.
And I dance to you, my bright one,
my every cell shouting Yes.
After the rain, boughs that just yesterday
still waved golden leaves, stand revealed,
poking their bare branches into low clouds.
Beneath them, as far as the eye can see,
a poem of fallen leaves is newly written
on the grass. Its countless verses
tell the tale of the life and death adventure,
the mystery and wonder of dancing in the sun,
never knowing what a day will hold,
but each having its measure of beauty.
And then the final letting go, the sailing
in the wind to the earth below,
and the breathing of the final song:
Home. Home. Home.
I’m one of those people who likes order. I’m not a wholehearted “neat freak,” but clutter bothers me. So I was kind of embarrassed when I realized I had walked past a leaf that was lying on my clean kitchen floor about four times, bothered every time by the fact that it was there. Why didn’t I just pick it up when I first noticed it? Ah. Self-sabotage had struck. I had bowed to the whispers of the devil on my shoulder.
We all have one. It’s that part of us that holds us back from getting what we really want, from being who we really want to be. It’s the evil little devil that tricks us into believing that all the bad stuff it whispers to us about ourselves is true. We’re weak, it tells us. Or vulnerable, incapable, worthless, needy, too tired, foolish, stupid, careless, clumsy, lazy, irresponsible, unlovable, and probably unattractive, too. Sheesh! You can see why I call it a devil.
It’s as tricky as one, too. It loves to reinforce our bad habits. “Go ahead,” it softly coaxes, “Take a break. Have another slice of pizza. Have a drink. Have a smoke. You deserve it.” Or maybe it says, “Don’t bother trying that. You know you’ll only fail.” It urges us to spend money we don’t have, to eat what we shouldn’t, to let people take advantage of us, to lie a little, to cheat a little, to be mean to our loved ones, to isolate ourselves, not to make an effort to achieve, not to take a risk that might win us all the marbles.
Its mission is to rob us of all that’s good in our lives by tricking us into doing whatever is against our best interests.
Noticing the Whispers
But here’s the good news. You can defeat it. Overcoming self-sabotage is simply a matter of becoming aware of that little devil’s voice. Begin by noticing what the self-sabotage devil is saying to you when you’re about to do something that you know you shouldn’t do–or when you find yourself not doing something you know that you really need to do to move toward your goal, toward your better self.
When I noticed the wayward leaf on my floor, for instance, my personal little devil was whispering things like “Not now. You’re too tired. You can do it later.” It spoke in a soothing voice, as if it was comforting my irritation and trying to lift the stress of it from my shoulders. But what it was really doing was preventing me from taking responsibility for solving the problem—and thereby insuring I would continue to feel irritation. See what I mean about “tricky?”
That’s why noticing what the devil on your shoulder is whispering to you is so powerful. Your awareness of it throws a monkey wrench into its game plan. Suddenly you spot how it’s justifying the choice to do what’s not in your best interest. Just notice.
You won’t always hear words, per se, in your mind. But you can learn to notice the moment of decision, the moment an impulse snags your awareness and see what you’re feeling. Even if you have already given in to it—you walked past the bit of clutter, you ate the piece of chocolate cake, you bought the new shirt—you can ask yourself what message the self-sabotage devil was using to trigger your choice.
If you will do only that—notice—you will develop awareness of what’s happening as it’s happening. And that lets you say to that self-sabotage devil, “Oh no you don’t! You’re not going to get me this time.”
Move to Your Point of Power
Recognize, too, that the messages it whispers, the emotions it stirs, aren’t coming from the adult you. They’re remnants of your past, reflecting your child’s-eye-view of something that your parents or caretakers or teachers said, or of the models they presented to you of what a grown-up does. But you’re not a child now; you can decide for yourself. You can choose to distance yourself from old patterns.
When you notice the impulse, the temptation, pull yourself into the present. Wake up from the self-sabotage trance and remember that you’re here, now, and that in this moment, you get to choose what you truly want to do, who you truly want to be, what will best move you toward your aims.
So notice. Just that. Oh, and maybe tilt your head a little towards the “Best You” angel that’s sitting on your other shoulder, too.
Wishing you a week of delicious victories, large and small.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay
This beauty, this air, these cycling seasons,
this wondrous rock on which we stand,
these waters, each tree, every leaf and blade of grass,
every drop of rain, each creature, large and small,
this glorious sunshine, this wild, tumultuous variety
of texture and color and form, was given to us all.
Not to an elite, however defined. Not conditioned
by anyone’s notion of worthiness. But freely,
in love, for our wonder, for our comfort, for our joy.
As many leaves have fallen
as still cling to the trees.
I wander through a world of them,
remembering their first pink whispers
as they peeked from their buds, so shy,
and then how they unfurled so easily
against the spring‘s wide skies. They served
as the canopy of summer, spreading emerald
everywhere, soothing us with their shade,
passing along the secrets of birds and breeze.
And now, here they are, holding the last gold
of autumn even as they sail to the earth
below to return to the Mother, to feed her
with their bodies as their spirits ascend
singing, their mission accomplished,
their purpose fulfilled.
Before our colors fade into winter’s quiet dreams,
let us give you one more sweep of hues
to carry you through the colorless cold.
Tuck our bright flags into the corners of your mind.
Wave them on nights when the wind howls,
when winter pulls its white blankets over your fields.
Let them warm you with their flames and encourage you
when the days seem bleak and endless.
Let them whisper to you that winter
is but a pulling back of the Archer’s bow so that,
come spring, shafts of fresh color may fly,
and joy, renewed, may drench your soul.
You can tell me the how of it all that you want,
explaining the way the light rays bend
around the curviness of earth,
and how their travel through the atmosphere
produces all these colors. It doesn’t change things
or answer the why. There didn’t have to be beauty.
But here it is, glowing, and touching our souls.
Let’s just take it as a gift, a love note from the Yes,
one flowing note in its endless, mysterious song.
Just because.
It matters, I believe, that we remember
these moments of beauty, that we fold
them into our being. And not only the sight
of them and their fragrance and sounds,
but the way they touched a deeper truth
within us. And it is that which is important
for us to recall—the way they sang to us
of the Yes from which they arose, and the way
our hearts sang with them in a mystery surpassing
comprehension and beyond all time.