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The thing about being human is the sometimes shear f-ing "humanness" of it. The fact of this body, its aches and pains, its livings and dyings. The fact of these emotions that can be so strong, especially when the circumstances of life are causing stresses to rush out of their life-long hidey-holes and pour through us. The fact of our needs and desires and strivings, the power of them to cloud our sense of connectedness to things, to each other, and the occasional (or sometimes not-so-occasional) belief that we know better than the universe how things should be going at a given moment, and our consequent dissatisfaction, or grumpiness, our judgment, of the world. Of ourselves. Of everyone around us. I know it's happening to me when not one single person around me is doing it right. I've slipped into Curmudgeon. Don't like it. Don't think it's particularly cute or cuddly. It's actually quite uncomfortable to be, probably uncomfortable to be around. And yet there it is.
Correction of the intellect. This is the assignment during these hours of the day we are not meditating. These other 23. Especially at those times when life and our humanness have so aligned to give us the experience of our own low-ebb reset button. (See reference to curmudgeon, above.) That place we go to within where the feeling is that there is something just vaguely wrong with everything, with the world, and it's my fault, and one of us should change or just go away. Probably me.
Anytime we have thoughts that speak of a world not worth living in or a self not worthy of life, by definition we are having a stress-release experience. By definition we are being overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings of stress release to such an extent that we no longer are able to feel ourselves connected to the oneness, no longer able to feel ourselves, even a little, as at one with nature. And this is where we correct.
Rather than just allow the script to run (and really, haven't we run it enough? Doesn't it always come out the same? Doesn't it always make us miserable?), we step in and say something like, "Now hang on. Am I really a worthless so-and-so? I know my father/mother/teacher once said so, or at least it felt like they did; but haven't I accomplished something? Haven't I survived, maybe even thrived, in situations where some others might not have? Haven't I been able to give of myself here and there?"
"No. You haven't. You're selfish and mean and no one loves you."
"Now, that's not true. I may have selfish moments, but I gave of myself to _________ just today (or yesterday, or last week); and ___________ really does genuinely like me. He/she enjoys my company."
And on like this, building within ourselves the voice of advocacy to stand up to the voice of the prosecutor. We begin to dismantle the case against ourselves. And simply by engaging in the dialogue (as I am doing with myself right here), we point our self-identity in the direction of what is good and true and right about ourselves, the direction of nature. The direction of our oneness.
Today I will be aware of what I am thinking, and I will not let the voices of negativity run unchecked. I will find at least one nice thing to tell myself about myself.
American Airlines, LA to NY
All material copyright Jeff Kober
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