Commitment. Intention. Resolution. Decision. To do something. Action. To take action. For me, the only way I DO anything is to tell someone else. To commit to them. To make a promise. It's not about them. It's about something I want to do. To be active. Go outside every day. Eat better. Write. To live my life in a way that feeds me. Nourishes me. And it's not about them. It's about me. And for me. But I need them. I need accountability. Someone outside my own head. I need to put it Out. Into the world. Into time and space.
But why do we falter? In our resolutions. Why are we not resolved? Feel resolved. Complete. We do have good intentions. To change something. Be better. Live better. Feel better. See more people. Connect. See less people. Be alone. Meditate. Breathe. And yet, inevitably, we slip. Back into old patterns. Back into the rut. Our familiar rut. Even if it's full of muck, a festering trench. Below the outhouse. Because it's comfortable. We know it. It's our Outhouse. And it's warm. We know the stench. And it reminds us who we think we are. Proves it. Despite it killing us. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes quickly.
We need other people. We think we can figure it out on our own. Mull it over. Churn the butter of our own mental shit. We grew up learning this way. Stay at your desk. Figure it out yourself. Don't talk to other classmates. Buck up. Don't be so lazy. So stupid.
And yet, what if we did? What if we did tell someone else what we wanted in life? What if we did ask? Our classmates. Our friends. Our neighbours. Our co-workers. Maybe. Just maybe something might happen that we couldn't see from our rut. What if we poked our head out through the hole? Climbed up. Opened the door. And had a conversation. Told someone else what's important to us.
And so I am now committing. To write. To write a blog post three times a week for ten weeks. By noon Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Whoa. It's out there now. And if I slip back in. I will climb back out. Smell the flowers. And tell you.
I will commit to reading and commenting on each of your posts good sir!
ReplyDeleteJust recently I shared my intention with you, Mike, that I would write a blog post by a certain date. That day came and went and nary a blog post was to be found. I owned up to the gap between intention and reality and while I still stank the foul odour of 'mistake,' at least we could both acknowledge the stink - like a mysterious, personal odour in an elevator - in our friendship and then move on.
What strikes me about this post are the intense connections you make between simple mistakes and human excrement. We are so afraid of making mistakes, of breaking our word and ultimately of showing vulnerability that it seems logical and not at all out of proportion to compare our mistakes to shit. It feels like shit when we make a mistake and in many ways we are shamed and choose to feel like shit, prompted by those around us, for those mistakes.
Something as simple as breaking my word about being on time affects me quite viscerally. "I'm a terrible person, I'm late!" "I don't want to be the kind of person who is late!" "I've broken my word about being on time, this person will think I have no integrity!" Try as I might to have compassion for myself I do treat myself like the shit in your story. And why would I do that? Because I take risks? Because I share my , sometimes, unreasonable intentions? Not knowing if I can fulfill on them but wanting to live in a world where I do?
In learning to take personal risks and live my life as if it's the only one I've got I've found that I'm making more mistakes than ever. The muscle I'm building up is the muscle called "It's A Story." I practice by remembering that my mistakes are JUST "What Happened" and that making mistakes is another way of saying "Being Alive."
What I'm cobbling together as a guiding narrative is that at a deep and fundamental level we, as mammals, are profoundly vulnerable. Vulnerability defines us; it is built into our biology; it is at our root. It creates us, feeds us and in our culture of hyper-individualism it also starves us. From the moment we are born until we are well into our teenage year we are almost ENTIRELY reliant on our parents, guardians and communities for everything from food, to shelter, to entertainment, to joy, to acceptance. A newborn child will instinctively cry and wail when left alone because it's worth the risk of bringing in every predator in ear shot versus the chance of not being found by their mother. There is a chance the baby could be eaten but it is CERTAIN to die if left alone.
I don't think we ever really escape that. All of us long to be acknowledged, loved and encircled by the support of others. But we create magnificent barriers to shut everyone away from us. What tragic comedians we all are - masters of irony. As we grow up we re-calculate and the predators become the bullies, the teachers, our parents and even (maybe especially) our friends. Unlike the babe we no longer bawl out for 'other,' expressing our vulnerability. Instead we stay silent and still, like a dry, brittle stick. In our adult calculus being alone now seems preferable to the punishment of shame and rejection. This calculation costs us our lives and most of us behave like it's worth it.
DeleteAll of the most beautiful and authentic moment in my life have revolved around sharing vulnerability and being accepted. There is no greater moment in my life than when someone I love shares their vulnerability with me and we can acknowledge our profound need for each other. In the new calculus: I am that you are.
I think it's our fear of rejection that is at the root of our 'shitty' mistakes and what holds us back from making more, more, more mistakes. It's holding us all back from living. Let's acknowledge that we all smell like shit most of the time but revel in the sweet, cleansing smell of authentic connection, built on shared vulnerability that we only find when we're out from under the outhouse - still stinky, but stinky together. Happy stink.