Each moment is fresh, new, and full of possibility
I am supposed to be at my Shambhala training this weekend, for the Drala level. The first talk was last night, and it was fascinating. It is something I really want to learn; and yet, here I am, at home, two hours after the program started this morning. I opted to not take it. I feel the need to "confess" this and to walk through my mental process, that there is something inherently wrong with me about not going, about not doing this level, not continuing with my studies. At the same time, after thinking and processing and sleeping, this was the decision that made the most sense. With these levels, I have been learning more and more. I have been extending myself, my practice, and absorbing so much information. I wasn't planning on beginning the Sacred Path curriculum, and yet I did, and I'm glad that I did. Drala is the third weekend in a series of five or six weekends. And the group that I've been taking classes with are there, and half of my weekly class is there, and there is a part of me that is sad. This sounds like some really fascinating stuff.
I am not ready.
And that sounds silly, and like a cop out, and like I need to explain myself. What I know is this: through these levels, I've run into some resistance. Some heavy duty, knock you about, get your ass off the cushion and go do something else resistance. And I was able to see it as resistance. I've encountered a still, small voice saying "Stick with this. Keep going. Breathe. Just breathe. Follow the breath. Be present." I've encountered the massive voice that carries a big stick that says "Don't do this, don't do this." I've encountered the feeling of dragging myself to a level, knowing I need and (underneath it all) want to do it, but am exhausted and tired and that I need to just get myself there. Through my weekly classes, I've encountered the "I don't want to be there," but taken myself and it was exactly what I needed. I was able to find that still, small voice that looked at the moment, said that it was passing and that wasn't the root of what was going on. That the root was fear, laziness, tiredness, doubt.
Last night, through the talk, I was writing my notes, and encountering something very different. There was an anxiety rising - not the usual butterflies in my chest anxiety that I recognize as fear, but anxiety that was going to have me bursting into tears, because I wasn't ready for this. This wasn't what I needed in my life. I talked with the coordinator, who suggested I sit down and talk with the director, which I did. And I told her that I would read something in the Windhorse source book that we received last night, and that I would think about going. I haven't been practicing since the Windhorse weekend, and the director said that it would be a great gift to myself to spend the weekend practicing. I agreed, but didn't commit. On the way home, I texted my teacher from Madison and asked her advice. I texted Sarah and asked if she'd be mad if I didn't do the weekend. I listened to Zoe Keating on the metro ride back to my car, and then This is a Process of a Still Life on the drive home from the Metro station. I wondered what it was that was telling me not to go, and why I wanted to go, and what options there were. And I also sat with it, the heavy feeling on my chest, the desire to go because I'm interested, but the intense feeling that it wasn't the time. That I was full. I came home and read through the reading the director asked me to read; I thought. I talked to Sarah. I sat with the thought "What will I feel if I don't go?" and "What will I feel if I do go?" And the former invoked a feeling of relief, the latter a feeling of wanting to throw up.
I had said something last night because there was the sense that if I didn't say anything, I wasn't recognizing this was going on. If I did say something, I was being gentle and honoring my experience and being vulnerable (I nearly threw up when I went to talk with the director; I have a case of the "I want to impress" and I know that's not the reason to go). And I set my alarm with time to go this morning; when I woke up, there was a feeling that I did not want to go back. That I was full, I need to digest the teachings, and that I am not a bad person for wanting to do this. I called the coordinator this morning and let her know that I appreciated the time they took talking with me last night, but that I was not going to be attending the weekend. And I felt a huge weight lift.
Which is also to say that there is a feeling of sadness, of loss, in that I will no longer be on "track" with people I value and want to spend time with, but I also know that this was the decision that I made from listening to myself and that the sadness is about the loss of the expectations I had placed on myself. I've been taking these classes since January of this year, and I've been going regularly. I am glad that I am continuing my weekday class (the newest one is Wisdom in Everyday Life; it started last Tuesday), and I feel a desire to read more of the lineage again, to actually sit, to become more involved in my own practice, instead of going to weekends and practicing because they tell me to. I'm noticing interesting patterns and I want to explore them more. I'm noticing my own mind, trying to catch myself in some of the tricks I try to play, and I'm trying to listen to myself, to distinguish when I'm scared and when I'm resisting and when I need to listen and stop. And I have been mentally and physically exhausted. I don't want to keep pushing myself because of outside forces (what will the rest of the group think, what will I have to answer for, shouldn't I be fine going though all of these levels without really stopping), because of expectations hopes fears that exist in my brain and are adding to the story I am telling about myself. I want to remain hungry for the teachings.
At my last job, one of the things I learned throughout the year I was there was about boundaries. About learning when to say no, and when to push myself. How to gauge the two. In previous iterations of this life I've lived, I have pushed myself, more and more, without letting myself back off, without knowing when to back off. That there were to many times I was ready to collapse and kept pushing on. In 2004, I got very sick and I learned that I can't do that forever. That there have to be boundaries, there have to be times to step back and listen to what I need, not just what I want. If I had my push-through-it-you'll-be-fine way, I would've gone through the weekend, taken notes, sat and pushed myself. And I may have had a wonderful weekend. I may have also used the weekend as a way to punish myself for even thinking I could stop.
Each moment is fresh, new. Each moment is another breath. Here I am, at 11:30 in the morning, sipping a cup of coffee, listening to an instrumental version of Such Great Heights (originally by The Postal Service, performed by The Section Quartet), and thinking of what else there is to say. What else is there to say? That I feel this moment, that I want to cry because I feel I *should* be doing something, but the still, small voice is telling me to go gently. That the teachings are there, and that this weekend's particular container is this weekend's container, that the teachings will be there. That I am full. That each moment is fresh.
This entry was originally posted at http://dancingwaves.dreamwidth.org/21145.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
I am not ready.
And that sounds silly, and like a cop out, and like I need to explain myself. What I know is this: through these levels, I've run into some resistance. Some heavy duty, knock you about, get your ass off the cushion and go do something else resistance. And I was able to see it as resistance. I've encountered a still, small voice saying "Stick with this. Keep going. Breathe. Just breathe. Follow the breath. Be present." I've encountered the massive voice that carries a big stick that says "Don't do this, don't do this." I've encountered the feeling of dragging myself to a level, knowing I need and (underneath it all) want to do it, but am exhausted and tired and that I need to just get myself there. Through my weekly classes, I've encountered the "I don't want to be there," but taken myself and it was exactly what I needed. I was able to find that still, small voice that looked at the moment, said that it was passing and that wasn't the root of what was going on. That the root was fear, laziness, tiredness, doubt.
Last night, through the talk, I was writing my notes, and encountering something very different. There was an anxiety rising - not the usual butterflies in my chest anxiety that I recognize as fear, but anxiety that was going to have me bursting into tears, because I wasn't ready for this. This wasn't what I needed in my life. I talked with the coordinator, who suggested I sit down and talk with the director, which I did. And I told her that I would read something in the Windhorse source book that we received last night, and that I would think about going. I haven't been practicing since the Windhorse weekend, and the director said that it would be a great gift to myself to spend the weekend practicing. I agreed, but didn't commit. On the way home, I texted my teacher from Madison and asked her advice. I texted Sarah and asked if she'd be mad if I didn't do the weekend. I listened to Zoe Keating on the metro ride back to my car, and then This is a Process of a Still Life on the drive home from the Metro station. I wondered what it was that was telling me not to go, and why I wanted to go, and what options there were. And I also sat with it, the heavy feeling on my chest, the desire to go because I'm interested, but the intense feeling that it wasn't the time. That I was full. I came home and read through the reading the director asked me to read; I thought. I talked to Sarah. I sat with the thought "What will I feel if I don't go?" and "What will I feel if I do go?" And the former invoked a feeling of relief, the latter a feeling of wanting to throw up.
I had said something last night because there was the sense that if I didn't say anything, I wasn't recognizing this was going on. If I did say something, I was being gentle and honoring my experience and being vulnerable (I nearly threw up when I went to talk with the director; I have a case of the "I want to impress" and I know that's not the reason to go). And I set my alarm with time to go this morning; when I woke up, there was a feeling that I did not want to go back. That I was full, I need to digest the teachings, and that I am not a bad person for wanting to do this. I called the coordinator this morning and let her know that I appreciated the time they took talking with me last night, but that I was not going to be attending the weekend. And I felt a huge weight lift.
Which is also to say that there is a feeling of sadness, of loss, in that I will no longer be on "track" with people I value and want to spend time with, but I also know that this was the decision that I made from listening to myself and that the sadness is about the loss of the expectations I had placed on myself. I've been taking these classes since January of this year, and I've been going regularly. I am glad that I am continuing my weekday class (the newest one is Wisdom in Everyday Life; it started last Tuesday), and I feel a desire to read more of the lineage again, to actually sit, to become more involved in my own practice, instead of going to weekends and practicing because they tell me to. I'm noticing interesting patterns and I want to explore them more. I'm noticing my own mind, trying to catch myself in some of the tricks I try to play, and I'm trying to listen to myself, to distinguish when I'm scared and when I'm resisting and when I need to listen and stop. And I have been mentally and physically exhausted. I don't want to keep pushing myself because of outside forces (what will the rest of the group think, what will I have to answer for, shouldn't I be fine going though all of these levels without really stopping), because of expectations hopes fears that exist in my brain and are adding to the story I am telling about myself. I want to remain hungry for the teachings.
At my last job, one of the things I learned throughout the year I was there was about boundaries. About learning when to say no, and when to push myself. How to gauge the two. In previous iterations of this life I've lived, I have pushed myself, more and more, without letting myself back off, without knowing when to back off. That there were to many times I was ready to collapse and kept pushing on. In 2004, I got very sick and I learned that I can't do that forever. That there have to be boundaries, there have to be times to step back and listen to what I need, not just what I want. If I had my push-through-it-you'll-be-fine way, I would've gone through the weekend, taken notes, sat and pushed myself. And I may have had a wonderful weekend. I may have also used the weekend as a way to punish myself for even thinking I could stop.
Each moment is fresh, new. Each moment is another breath. Here I am, at 11:30 in the morning, sipping a cup of coffee, listening to an instrumental version of Such Great Heights (originally by The Postal Service, performed by The Section Quartet), and thinking of what else there is to say. What else is there to say? That I feel this moment, that I want to cry because I feel I *should* be doing something, but the still, small voice is telling me to go gently. That the teachings are there, and that this weekend's particular container is this weekend's container, that the teachings will be there. That I am full. That each moment is fresh.
This entry was originally posted at http://dancingwaves.dreamwidth.org/21145.html. Please comment there using OpenID.