Here I go again on my own... going down the only road I've ever known.... like a drifter I was born to walk alone.... Are you ready for ready for, the perfect storm perfect storm?... I'm coming at you like a dark horse.
I'm writing free style today. Freer style. Yesterday I talked about being free, this is me being free, baby! In the eighth grade my friend and I always said, "Nakedness is freedom..." She told me how running naked through a corn field would be her moment of complete liberation. I nodded my head and made agreeing sounds, "I know, totally." But secretly I hated the idea. It sounded totally uncomfortable. If I ever ran naked through a corn field, it would be towards a pile of clothing and a pair of comfortable shoes.
So, since nakedness isn't freedom, what is? I will tell you through a story. *Sigh* I love stories.
Yesterday I was swollen and heavy all day. I'm not talking your normal heat swelling, I'm talking about ten pounds of thick wrists and ankles, swollen. According to my belief in emotional healing, swelling is evidence of an unwillingness to let go. What the heck!
I thought I had been letting go of everything, like my friend shedding her clothes in the cornfield. What could I possibly be holding on to? And yet here I was, the stay-puft-marshmallow-man of toxicity.
I went to bed feeling bad about myself. I fell asleep feeling bad about myself. All night my mind raced with weird and stupid dreams, and I hadn't even eaten pineapple before bed. I woke up exhausted five-and-a-half hours later, but when I woke up, I understood
The clues were in my racing brain, and my blog posts, and my eating habits, the clues were everywhere. It was so obvious that I felt stupid for not having seen it before.
I was holding on to speed. No, not the illegal drug, speed. I was holding onto the belief that being fast is better than being slow. Slow people invoke anger in others. Slow people are considered stupid. Slow people are criticized. And I am a naturally slow person. Being slow is peaceful to me. Being slow makes me feel alive and fulfilled, and comfortable, yes, comfortable. Being slow allows me to accomplish all I want, and more. I can have everything I want in life by being slow. But I'm afraid.
I'm afraid being slow isn't good enough. I'm afraid of what change will bring. No one seems to like slow people.
Being a naturally slow person forcing myself to go fast, makes me very tired. So I race and I crash, race and crash, over and over. And because it's one of my core beliefs that being fast is better than being slow, I don't just do it when other people are around, I do it always. That might be the main reason my sleeping patterns are so out of whack, Actually, when I look at my life, everything has a pattern of starting with great momentum then quickly fading out. Maybe that's where many of those stop signs came from, if I can't go fast, I won't go at all.
I always wanted to be a fast writer, but instead of being a fast writer, my mind simply races while I'm writing, giving my writing a rushed feeling, and my brain a headache. Slowing down will change my writing. Slowing down will change everything.
Running naked through a cornfield isn't freedom to me, freedom is walking slowly through that cornfield, in a comfortable pair of shoes. Slowing down is freedom.
This post was written with that same racing momentum then trickling to an abrupt ending. I'm wondering if you, my dearest readers, will notice the change in my writing when I am able to slow down without fear. I haven't quite gotten there yet.
I'm writing free style today. Freer style. Yesterday I talked about being free, this is me being free, baby! In the eighth grade my friend and I always said, "Nakedness is freedom..." She told me how running naked through a corn field would be her moment of complete liberation. I nodded my head and made agreeing sounds, "I know, totally." But secretly I hated the idea. It sounded totally uncomfortable. If I ever ran naked through a corn field, it would be towards a pile of clothing and a pair of comfortable shoes.
So, since nakedness isn't freedom, what is? I will tell you through a story. *Sigh* I love stories.
Yesterday I was swollen and heavy all day. I'm not talking your normal heat swelling, I'm talking about ten pounds of thick wrists and ankles, swollen. According to my belief in emotional healing, swelling is evidence of an unwillingness to let go. What the heck!
I thought I had been letting go of everything, like my friend shedding her clothes in the cornfield. What could I possibly be holding on to? And yet here I was, the stay-puft-marshmallow-man of toxicity.
I went to bed feeling bad about myself. I fell asleep feeling bad about myself. All night my mind raced with weird and stupid dreams, and I hadn't even eaten pineapple before bed. I woke up exhausted five-and-a-half hours later, but when I woke up, I understood
The clues were in my racing brain, and my blog posts, and my eating habits, the clues were everywhere. It was so obvious that I felt stupid for not having seen it before.
I was holding on to speed. No, not the illegal drug, speed. I was holding onto the belief that being fast is better than being slow. Slow people invoke anger in others. Slow people are considered stupid. Slow people are criticized. And I am a naturally slow person. Being slow is peaceful to me. Being slow makes me feel alive and fulfilled, and comfortable, yes, comfortable. Being slow allows me to accomplish all I want, and more. I can have everything I want in life by being slow. But I'm afraid.
I'm afraid being slow isn't good enough. I'm afraid of what change will bring. No one seems to like slow people.
Being a naturally slow person forcing myself to go fast, makes me very tired. So I race and I crash, race and crash, over and over. And because it's one of my core beliefs that being fast is better than being slow, I don't just do it when other people are around, I do it always. That might be the main reason my sleeping patterns are so out of whack, Actually, when I look at my life, everything has a pattern of starting with great momentum then quickly fading out. Maybe that's where many of those stop signs came from, if I can't go fast, I won't go at all.
I always wanted to be a fast writer, but instead of being a fast writer, my mind simply races while I'm writing, giving my writing a rushed feeling, and my brain a headache. Slowing down will change my writing. Slowing down will change everything.
Running naked through a cornfield isn't freedom to me, freedom is walking slowly through that cornfield, in a comfortable pair of shoes. Slowing down is freedom.
This post was written with that same racing momentum then trickling to an abrupt ending. I'm wondering if you, my dearest readers, will notice the change in my writing when I am able to slow down without fear. I haven't quite gotten there yet.