As a kid, I never wanted to keep a diary, because I was afraid that some day I (not anyone else, but myself) would look back on it and laugh at how serious I was about my juvenile feelings and conclusions.  I was deathly afraid of this at the ripe age of 10, which shows me how much I probably needed to feel heard by someone who could just listen and accept.  I even remember once writing in a brand new diary a solemn vow: "I will never look back on this and laugh."  I was very conscious of the fact that I did not trust my future self, though.  Even with the promise, I never filled in many pages.

Not much has changed, really.   

I have noticed that every time I write something I experience a backlash a day or two later.  "Was that true?"  "What was my motivation for writing that, or writing that that way?"  "Ugh, what was I thinking...who am I to think I could write honestly? Obviously, I'm writing for some kind of effect...I don't even think that's really true, do I?"  etc etc. 

There's an infinite number of ways I can take a wrong turn somehow and move out of helpful mind-watching. It's always a form of fear that takes me for a good wallow in the navel fuzz-side of introspection. 

You are in the navel fuzz if looking is not making you feel lighter. 

I had a helpful thought today though about that part of me, the one that looks at anything I say or do with a curling lip and dripping derision.  (Yes, a sister to The Judge.....a know-it-all-and-argue-with-it-all teenage sister, no less.) Her job is specifically to muck up any sand mandala I may have put myself into.  It's as though she'll spare me from the need to wait for the elements to blow and wash it away...she jumps into the middle of it, smooshes her feet around to smear the colors, and then says in a triumphant voice, "There! Fixed that!" 

I'm on to her and can start to feel when she is on her way to the scene...and I can just stop her now, I think.  Maybe.  Whatever the issue, her response is not helpful.  Grow up.

She reminds me of a story I read about Helen Shucman, the scribe part of the duo who brought in A Course In Miracles.  Her poetry, which she felt was inspired by the same source of the ACIM, but was not "channeled" or received as a direct transmission, was a "guilty secret" she shared with only a handful of her closest friends who knew about her gifts.  But one day she was connecting very well with a young woman whom she was showing a sweet maternal tendency towards.  She surprised the rest of her friends when she went to the closet and pulled out her book of poetry.  "This is my favorite one," she told the young woman and then read it to her. 

When she finished, the woman was moved. "Yes, it's beautiful, isn't it" Helen responded, then added,  "I hate it."

I so get that.  There's something in us (e-g-o, obviously) that really wants to avoid the Open Doors or anything that reminds us of the sweetness of Truth, even while we also feel that we want it more than anything else.  It's a paradox.

So what if my words aren't Truth?  Or if tomorrow they seem worse than no-truth...maybe horse pucky?

I find my happiness staying the student, learning from the words that seem to come from me or seem to some from someone else...or even from something "other" through me.  This blog is a therapeutic form, but what of the comedian who puts his private thoughts in a funny routine on stage? I'd say anything not harmful is therapy.

Interestingly, I ask some of my hypnotherapy clients to journal privately at home.  When they have the courage to actually do it -- when they can tell mandala-smooshing girl/boy to go away -- it seems to really help.


  1. I know Exactly what you mean. Another way I see it manifesting is the way I keep checking emails I've written and sent... that cringing feeling.

    Every morning I am delighted to see your posts wend their way to me, with exactly the right message I need to hear. and I particularly love today's image that accompanies "mandala-smooshing girl".
    hugs xo


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