"If you build it, they will come."
From the movie Field of Dreams
I hosted my very first workshop this week. It was titled "Powerful Decision Making: Conventional Wisdom That Isn't ~ How To Live a Better Life by Steering Clear of Sage Advice". It was for an independent study course and moves me 4 credit hours closer to my degree. It was also, at some subliminal level, all about trying to figure out how to make better decisions myself.
As you teach, so shall you learn...and vice versa.
While preparing for this experiential learning endeavor, I've been doing a lot of thinking about my past decisions...all those little day to day choices...that brought me to the reality I'm experiencing today. Let me be clear. I know I've made a royal mess of my life and am only just now, at 47 years old, making my decisions more consciously and deliberately because I really do want a better life.
Something came to me the other day. I have noticed that the consequences of nearly every poorly made choice of my life seem to have converged en masse creating a mountain of distress that I am dilligently working to overcome. At first I was pretty pissed that every time I turned around another darn thing came up. The more tired and discouraged I felt, the more likely some new weed would pop up in my metaphorical garden.
The "f" word started becoming a frequent visitor to my internal dialogue.
But of course, I knew that every one of those distasteful developments belonged to me. Like having your name sewn into your jacket when you were a kid. Ownership is indisputable. Most likely the acknowledgment of this fact was the reason for the rise of the "f" word.
You see, over the last seven years or so, I've been building a new house. Not a physical house, more of a new life structure. I've been changing the way I look at things and the way I respond to things. I've been more intentional in choosing my direction. The quality of my building materials and the design for the space have improved immensely. Yes, I thought I was building a brand new house and had left the old house far behind.
But this is not a new house. It's a new wing to the old house. Just because I've moved into the new cozier quarters, it doesn't mean the rats and ghosts that inhabit the old wing are gone. I hear them gnawing and wailing at night as I struggle to fall asleep.
Earlier this week I talked about how we create our lives by our choices. However, sometimes creation is not enough. If you want to put an end to the wailing and gnawing, the old wing has to go.
Creation is easy. De-creation is a whole other matter.
Sure, you could take a wrecking ball to the thing or set it ablaze but this would not only risk damaging what you're constructing now, it also puts an end to anything good that you built into that old rickety structure. There's lots in there to be salvaged if you're brave enough to go in after it.
When I was a kid in upstate New York, everyone I knew lived in either a sort of old house or a really old house. There's a whole lot more history to be had in the northeast than here in central Florida...at least there was back in the 1960's and 1970's. I can remember cool little details about those houses, like the glass in the windows that was wavy, not perfectly clear like today. It gave the blanket of winter snow outside an even more magical appeal, particularly to an elementary aged little girl. The other cool things were the creaky wooden floors and staircases. I loved that sound as people would move across them. This is perhaps why I love spooky old houses today. I like hearing stories of people salvaging that tired wood and those imperfect windows before a building is torn down. There are memories stored there. To save them is to honor the memories, even if you don't know what they mean.
I don't know why I did all the things I did, or didn't do, that made my house. I cry over the pain I've caused and the pain I've experienced. I mostly cry because I still don't understand.
I want to live in a house that is whole. I want to exist in a peaceful place that welcomes me not haunts me. So I'm spending what quiet time I can find pulling bent nails and unscrewing rusty door knobs while chatting with ghosts and feeding cheese to rats. They deserve love too. Eventually I'll be able to distinguish between rubble and what is valuable. It takes looking at one piece at a time and making powerful choices.
It serves me...it serves me not.
You have to love it all...because you made it all...so hug it before you let it go.
Wink at the moon and dance in the starlight coming through the rafters.
Much love,
WS
From the movie Field of Dreams
I hosted my very first workshop this week. It was titled "Powerful Decision Making: Conventional Wisdom That Isn't ~ How To Live a Better Life by Steering Clear of Sage Advice". It was for an independent study course and moves me 4 credit hours closer to my degree. It was also, at some subliminal level, all about trying to figure out how to make better decisions myself.
As you teach, so shall you learn...and vice versa.
While preparing for this experiential learning endeavor, I've been doing a lot of thinking about my past decisions...all those little day to day choices...that brought me to the reality I'm experiencing today. Let me be clear. I know I've made a royal mess of my life and am only just now, at 47 years old, making my decisions more consciously and deliberately because I really do want a better life.
Something came to me the other day. I have noticed that the consequences of nearly every poorly made choice of my life seem to have converged en masse creating a mountain of distress that I am dilligently working to overcome. At first I was pretty pissed that every time I turned around another darn thing came up. The more tired and discouraged I felt, the more likely some new weed would pop up in my metaphorical garden.
The "f" word started becoming a frequent visitor to my internal dialogue.
But of course, I knew that every one of those distasteful developments belonged to me. Like having your name sewn into your jacket when you were a kid. Ownership is indisputable. Most likely the acknowledgment of this fact was the reason for the rise of the "f" word.
You see, over the last seven years or so, I've been building a new house. Not a physical house, more of a new life structure. I've been changing the way I look at things and the way I respond to things. I've been more intentional in choosing my direction. The quality of my building materials and the design for the space have improved immensely. Yes, I thought I was building a brand new house and had left the old house far behind.
But this is not a new house. It's a new wing to the old house. Just because I've moved into the new cozier quarters, it doesn't mean the rats and ghosts that inhabit the old wing are gone. I hear them gnawing and wailing at night as I struggle to fall asleep.
Earlier this week I talked about how we create our lives by our choices. However, sometimes creation is not enough. If you want to put an end to the wailing and gnawing, the old wing has to go.
Creation is easy. De-creation is a whole other matter.
Sure, you could take a wrecking ball to the thing or set it ablaze but this would not only risk damaging what you're constructing now, it also puts an end to anything good that you built into that old rickety structure. There's lots in there to be salvaged if you're brave enough to go in after it.
When I was a kid in upstate New York, everyone I knew lived in either a sort of old house or a really old house. There's a whole lot more history to be had in the northeast than here in central Florida...at least there was back in the 1960's and 1970's. I can remember cool little details about those houses, like the glass in the windows that was wavy, not perfectly clear like today. It gave the blanket of winter snow outside an even more magical appeal, particularly to an elementary aged little girl. The other cool things were the creaky wooden floors and staircases. I loved that sound as people would move across them. This is perhaps why I love spooky old houses today. I like hearing stories of people salvaging that tired wood and those imperfect windows before a building is torn down. There are memories stored there. To save them is to honor the memories, even if you don't know what they mean.
I don't know why I did all the things I did, or didn't do, that made my house. I cry over the pain I've caused and the pain I've experienced. I mostly cry because I still don't understand.
I want to live in a house that is whole. I want to exist in a peaceful place that welcomes me not haunts me. So I'm spending what quiet time I can find pulling bent nails and unscrewing rusty door knobs while chatting with ghosts and feeding cheese to rats. They deserve love too. Eventually I'll be able to distinguish between rubble and what is valuable. It takes looking at one piece at a time and making powerful choices.
It serves me...it serves me not.
You have to love it all...because you made it all...so hug it before you let it go.
Wink at the moon and dance in the starlight coming through the rafters.
Much love,
WS
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