![]() ![]() Without enough energy to tune in to or take care of others, the satellite dish’s receivers turned inward.Īlone and bewildered, or, as Martha pronounces it, be-wilder-ed, I began to sense a feral inner self. I couldn’t seem to behave in the acceptable fashion, to follow the rules, to be normal. I dropped my capability, cleverness, my knack for making things work out. And then, thinking things couldn’t get much worse, I got sick.įeeling like a sickly, exhausted, washed up failure, I could no longer keep up the facade of having it all together. ![]() I limped back to Montana to hide out under the big sky. It took years to allow everything to fall apart, but when I finally did, when I finally left the relationship, sold the ill-fitting business, lost the house to the recession, a little tug called me home. ![]() Speaking up or taking action seemed almost impossible, weighed down with the expectations of others. Most of all, the satellite dish picked up disapproval if I didn’t assuage someone’s discomfort or fulfill their wishes, or if I didn’t act “normal.” Normalcy came at a high price.ĭuring that painful time, I felt I was only aware of other people – I couldn’t seem to pick up on my own needs, opinions, wants. All the information I picked up left me feeling frayed, exposed, and at the mercy of other people’s moods. At the worst, by the end of an 8-year relationship with a violent boyfriend, I felt like one big nerve, like a satellite dish set to receive, receive, receive. If I attuned to the wrong people or too much, I wasn’t safe at all. This sensitivity helped me to be kind to others, to learn rapidly, to excel at work, and to keep myself safe in more situations than I can count. My favorite was seeing the best in people and helping them see it, too. I could soothe someone’s pain, surprise her with a kindness, intuit his secret hopes or fears. It was as if I could listen with my whole heart. No, I couldn’t read their minds, but rather seemed to anticipate what they wanted me to say and do. I could sense other people’s feelings, needs, expectations. Here’s one of my own many examples of falling apart and going to the forest.įor as long as I can remember, I’ve been attuned to others. Your “forest” could be a desert, a pillow in your closet, or anywhere you can go to be yourself. In her book, Diana, Herself: An Allegory of Awakening, author (and one of my teachers) Martha Beck calls it “going to the forest.” Once you allow everything to fall apart, you’ll feel a tug, a sort of impulse or guidance. “How can one get from falling apart to falling into place?” “Great!” you say, with an involuntary eye roll. Of course not! But in a way I am happy, because everything falling apart so often leads to things falling into place. I’m so pleased! That might sound like schadenfreude, like I take delight in your life falling apart. When I posted the video and sent a note to my closest friends about letting things fall apart, I heard over and over that that’s exactly what’s going on in your lives. When you let everything fall apart, you drop your socialization, your beliefs about “shoulds” and “have to’s” and manners, and get closer to just being yourself. Here’s me talkin’ ’bout the good medicine of things falling apart. Because it’s already breaking down and to deny that is to wrestle with reality. Surrender to the notion that change is constant, loss is inevitable, death is certain. Emotions will arise from this, and they might be doozies, but in my experience there’s much more suffering to be had from trying to hold it all together. You can deal with this the way I usually do, by digging in and holding on and trying to keep everything together, long after it’s started to rot. The first thing is everything falls apart. A couple of things happen prior to “awakening.” These occur in my life and probably in yours, whenever you’re ready to go to a new level. ![]()
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