Today, my feet ache, as if I’ve been walking barefoot across hot stones. My chest feels tight. My eyes grow suspiciously moist if I stop working long enough to think. I let them. What else can I do?
Finally, I am at that place. I knew the exact moment. There was no choice—not really. Something inside of me broke; resistance is futile. My mother says, “Remember, you are in control,” at the exact moment I write, “I Surrender” on my refrigerator board.
I have a yellow post-it note from a month ago, sitting on my desk. It contains a hastily jotted note:
If reality is not congruent with the way we think things should be:
we can try to change the circumstances to fit our model,
we can change the model to fit our circumstances,
or
we can throw out the model.
The first rarely works the way we think it will. The second is difficult, and can cause a lot of internal dissension—a war between the ego and that other voice inside of us, which we might attribute to “the soul” or “true self.” The third is impossible. The moment we imagine ourselves “throwing out” one model, we simply replace it with another. But, apparently, what is possible, is that the model suddenly draws in upon itself—like a giant inhale—before exploding into a million pieces, sending shrapnel in every direction. The sharp edges are splitting me open. What’s in here? I didn’t have to do a thing. I was listening. I was taking a deep breath. I was sitting there, and it just happened, all by itself.
God, I am your servant.
What would you have me do?
And God says, quite simply,
“Give. Love.
When it’s over,
there should be nothing
left of you.”
In the meantime, we suffer hundreds of tiny deaths, maybe thousands. It’s not so much that you would notice; it’s moment to moment. Death, rebirth. The person I was. Dead. The person I am? Which second? The person I want to be? Is always one step ahead of me. The person you think I am? That’s your business. Everything is okay. Everything is not okay. What is left? Maybe I am a doorway, and you come right through me; an open window, and you see inside of you; a cup—sometimes to fill, and sometimes, to empty.
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