AWAKENING DETACHMENT (MB)

Topic: Kabbalistic Concepts | 

We learn in the portion of Korach that even those who attached themselves to Korach and did not have pure intentions were still able to infuse the tools they used in bringing what’s called the offering to the Creator with the Light of the Creator. Because, just as with Korach there was .01% of negative thought in action which ruined everything, so too was there .01% of positive thought in action, which revealed Light. So clearly, even actions as we do them currently, infused with our ego, reveal Light - maybe even great Light - but not ultimate Light. Not the ultimate blessings, not the ultimate removal of pain and suffering from this world. That cannot happen while our work is, as it is today, infused with our Desire to Receive for the Self Alone.

And what is one of the most powerful tools to get there? It says vayiplu al peneihem,that when the Israelites surround Moses and Aaron, “They fall on their faces, they fall to the ground.” All the Israelites, led by Korach and the 250 people who gathered with him, are surrounding Moses, arguing with him. Usually when people argue with us we shoot back an argument and our ego gets even greater. But Moses didn’t do that, because he knew the secret. He knew that actions are unimportant. It is the purity of heart. And so it says Moses and Aaron simultaneously fall to the ground. Why do they fall to the ground? It’s not that they became scared. It’s not that they were overtaken by emotion.

Rabbeinu Bachya, the great kabbalist, gives three reasons why they fell on their faces, and I want to talk about the third. He says they fell to show and awaken the complete removal of any emotional attachment to the situation. Moses knew that the only way he could reveal Light in this situation, certainly when his position is being attacked, is if he completely detached himself from everything that was going on. Because when a person falls on the ground and covers his eyes and mouth, he accepts that there is nothing that is going to happen that will be good for him or bad for him.

The physical action of Moses falling on his face was an awakening of a spiritual consciousness. Moses had to be in a place where he couldn’t care less if he continued being the leader, if Korach became the leader, or even, and this is an ultimate level, if the Israelites killed him right then. The only way that he could maintain a connection to the Light of the Creator was if in this moment he had zero attachment to what was going to happen next. That’s the first step. Not only is he detached, he also comes to the reality of understanding that he doesn’t even know what the right next step is. It’s not just enough to say I’m detached from what’s going to happen; he is also not going to allow his ego, his mind, to tell him what the right next thing is.

This is an important consciousness that is going to be very difficult for most of us to come to. Some of us, I think, can envision coming to a place where we say, “I am detached from this situation, I want the Light of the Creator to come in.” But we also, somewhere, know what the right thing to happen is; however, we have to have both. First we have to be detached from it completely, with no ego involvement at all. And second, we have to say I don’t know what the right thing to happen is. All of Moses’ thoughts, desires, and emotions were completely removed from the entire situation. His eyes and his mouth were closed, meaning he had neither a desire to say anything, nor did he know what he should say. He was completely removed from the situation, and wanted only what the Light of the Creator wanted.

Interestingly, the reason we have our feet together when we pray the Amidah is because when a person enters into the connection of the Amidah, he needs to come to this consciousness first of being completely removed from all that is occurring in his life, and secondly of saying, essentially, “I have no idea what the right next steps are - my legs are bound.” And from here can a person receive both the direction and the complete flow of the Light of the Creator into his life. That is why we have our feet together in the Amidah, and that is why sometimes when people pray, they put their hands together. Even though they might not know it, the original reason was to awaken this same consciousness, which is that my hands are tied; meaning, I don’t have any attachment to what happens next, and I have no knowledge of what should happen next. And only when the person has not just the physical actions of putting their hands together or putting their feet together, but actually awakens this consciousness, can the Light of the Creator truly come in.

Rabbeinu Bachya says that we are meant at least three times a day to awaken this consciousness, and so we pray the Amidah with our feet together three times a day. But when was the last time you took even 5 minutes, 10 minutes, or half an hour, to do this work - to look at your life and all the things that you are involved in physically and spiritually - and work towards detaching yourself from them completely? If we truly appreciate this teaching we receive on this Shabbat, then we understand that there is no hope for our actions to reveal the ultimate Light and blessings until we begin taking this work of detachment seriously. And if we are able to awaken this detachment - what’s called nefilat apaim - as Moses did, then the Light of the Creator comes completely into our life.

When we don’t have attachments to the things we are doing, then we don’t worry about them, and we don’t get upset about them. That’s ultimately the place we all want to get to in our spiritual work: “I’m doing this now because I believe this is what the Creator wants me to do right now. If tomorrow He tells me what I need to be doing is something completely different, then I’ll be as excited about that as I am about this.” And that’s the gift of the Shabbat of Korach, achieving what’s called nefilat apaim, achieving a complete detachment from everything that we do – and by doing that, allowing the Light of the Creator to flow into everything that we do and completely direct our lives.

Thought

"I was a free thinker before I knew how to think." George Bernard Shaw

Everyone is influenced by someone, and so am I. To not be influenced is to remain ignorant.Today I do not hinder my thinking, particularly around spiritual matters, because of pride. I may not like change. I may find it hard to accept attitudes and opinions that differ from my own. I know pride keeps me deaf and often stupid. However, the daily program of a lived spirituality encourages a variety of opinions and attitudes. I can learn from different customs, lifestyles, and religions. I can be helped in my understanding of life by the stranger. I know I do not have all the answers.Today I am prepared to listen.

Sustainer of all religions and philosophies, help me discover You in any differences.

On this day of your life

Neytiri & Jake, I believe God wants you to know...

...that enthusiasm is half of the journey to success, and

all of the journey to joy.

  

If you're going to do something, do it with gusto. Don't

do anything half-heartedly. That dishonors the doing

and the doer. So

go for it. Hold nothing back. In life.

Or love. Or anything at all.

You will not have to think but a second to know

exactly why you received this message today.

 

Trust that your inner goodness will rule this moment...

To Others And To Ourselves (OM)

Obligations

by Madisyn Taylor

When we schedule too much in our lives trying to meet our obligations, we only end up draining our energy.

We all encounter obligations in life, from spending time with family and friends to being present at important functions in the lives of the people who form our community. Many times, the obligations are actually fun and fulfilling, and we want to be there. At the same time, we all sometimes experience resistance to meeting these obligations, especially when they pile up all at once and we begin to feel exhausted, longing for nothing so much as a quiet evening at home. At times like these, we may want to say no but feel too guilty at the idea of not being there. Still, our primary obligation is to take care of ourselves, and if saying no to someone else is what we have to do, then we do not need to feel bad about it.

There is a skill to balancing our obligations, and it starts with simply becoming aware of our schedule. We may notice that three invitations have arisen in one weekend, and we know that we will pay energetically if we attempt to fulfill all three. At this point, we can take the time to weigh the repercussions of not going to each event, considering how we will feel if we miss it and how our absence might affect other people. Most of the time, it will be clear which obligation we can most easily let go and which one we simply can’t miss. Sometimes we have to miss something really important to us, and that can be painful for everyone concerned. At times like this, reaching out with a phone call, a thoughtful card, or a gift lets people know that you are there in spirit and that your absence is by no means a result of you not caring.

Meeting our obligations to others is an important part of being human and not one to take lightly. At the same time, we cannot meet every obligation without neglecting our primary duty to take care of ourselves. We can navigate this quandary by being conscious of what we choose to do and not do and by finding concrete ways to extend our caring when we are not able to be there in person.

For more information visit dailyom.com

A Male Perspective on what Breakups Teach Us.

Via Robert Busch

Just recently I have experienced two painful break ups within a short amount of time. Instead of blaming the universe for throwing negative stuff at me I chose to focus on the lessons that can be learned from that drama.

The first chapter in that story was my partner announcing our separation on the phone after three-and-a-half years. At the same time I was challenged by a severe physical injury that caused major problems with my life as a yoga teacher; I was really losing my faith with my path at that time.

I decided to take my time and recover from my physical and emotional wounds. I took a yoga teaching job abroad. My journey led me to Morocco where I was teaching daily yoga classes right at the ocean. Teaching yoga and meeting all kinds of inspiring people really helped to reconnect with myself and question the patterns that might have caused the struggle I was facing:

Will I ever be able to trust again? What if I will be lonely for the rest of my life? 

The way out of that seemed to be establishing more self-awareness toward my own habits and being less reactive to things that might irritate me. Just being in the moment and not attaching to the outcomes of my actions became my new practice. I started playing music again, got my running shoes on, started some CrossFitexercise and probably the most important of all: I established a daily meditation practice.

Without planning it, the outcome was amazing. I lost the 18 pounds that I’d gained from my injury without even trying. After three months I had my little band I was playing concerts with on a regular basis and the running gave me one runner’s high after the other. It was the best recovery plan I’d ever had, without even planning it.

People around me noticed all of a sudden that I had changed. All of a sudden I found myself in a romantic love story too. This deep connection that came out of nothing taught me that I still have the ability to love and trust someone. More and more I learned to give into that experience and not be afraid of the possible outcome, even though it was pretty obvious that this love wouldn‘t last long. Close friends already saw the drama starting all over again. Even the fact that the patterns of that relationship were similar to the one I had before didn‘t hold me back from jumping into it. I was present and I was happy.

I fully let go into that love story; I even moved to a different country to keep this feeling of inner peace and happiness. This relationship became the most important thing in my life and I started attaching to the outcome of it. I was envisioning my future and seeing myself at the end of my journey. Without noticing, I lost everything I had established for my own well-being. My need to feel loved by someone took over and my fear of being left behind blocked my ability to enjoy the moment.

Not a big surprise, soon after my partner didn‘t feel our connection anymore, and at that point reality set in and doubts took over. I noticed how my optimistic being had shifted into the wounded being I had been eight months ago. I started blaming my partner for leaving me and saw myself as a victim of life.

But is this the lesson to be learned? Blaming others for their feelings? Just because they don‘t make us happy anymore?

No, it is not anyone’s duty to make us happy. We should be aware on our path that we create our own well-being as well as our own suffering. We choose the people that we connect with, and those people are facing their own challenges and not ours. Everyone is on their own journey, seeking for something that makes them happy. There might be a point where it matches, but also a point where it doesn‘t. It gives us insight about the individuals and their journey, but it doesn‘t say much about the “soulmate-level“ between them. Maybe the timing was just not right and who knows what will happen in the future.

What I learned from this experience is that as long as we are on this journey, seeking for our true self, we will have to face the challenging breakups over and over again. Those dramas represent the drama that we carry within. It is our own struggle that is being reflected by our partner and how could we blame someone we love for that?

˜ (white to hide the thing?)

Author: Robert Busch

Cleaning House, Cleaning Heart: A Tale from in Between.

Via Dhara Des Fours

If our homes reflected the story of our inner lives, what story would they tell?

I’m pondering that question from the bath, which has kid-sized muddy footprints all around the edges. There’s a joyousness in that mess at least.

The mess “over there” tells a different story though. For one, I know that no one is going to clean it up if I don’t. There’s a certain grown up loneliness in that truth. And a grown up power. The floor needs a scrub. It hasn’t even been very long! How can it be so grimy already? Where are we really if our very foundation is murky. Or is it just a matter of excessive use, of blessedly busy feet and of higher priorities? It’s both, I suppose.

The next room is the kitchen, and it could use an overhaul. Just dishes, or are we going to do cupboards and jars and forgotten flour packets with webs in the top? They make false promises those flour packets, like tired ideas or attachments that no longer serve, they promise spongy cakes and ginger nut cookies that will never happen. And they take up space.

The kitchen is the heart of the home, they say. And, as could be said of my actual heart, the strangest assortment of homeless objects has accumulated here: half read books with pages folded hopefully at the corners, some drawings, a little stack of mail addressed to an unknown A. Beard who must have lived here once, a miniature (really miniature) rake for arranging tiny pebbles, Japanese style. Was it for raking one’s way to inner calm? It doesn’t matter really. Someone has tipped out the pebbles. The essence of rake is raking, so this is a rake adrift.

Wow, my little veranda is really…well, it represents everything that is abandoned and in want of my attention and love. There are things that need to be let go of and things that ought to be saved. Boxes of what was once my academic career, under boxes of what reluctantly became my market career, under bags of clothes destined for the charity shop. On the shelf are half finished drawings and piles of photographs, the diaries of my adolescence and travels and all the love letters I’ve ever received by post. I seem to have a lot of extra shoes. Where do I suppose I’m going to be wearing those?

Verandas truly are the threshold spaces, the buffer zones between our private and public worlds. Between the domesticated indoors and the untamed chaos of the jungle. Between what we can bear to look at and what we cannot. The windows might rattle and leak allowing some of what’s inside to leak out and some of what’s outside to seep in. And the stuff we store there—the things fading in or out of our lives and the things we’re not quite sure what to do with—they wait, accruing dust or mold or bleaching in the sunlight, depending on the season.

Nothing is really shown in its best aspect if it’s kept waiting in this in-between-land too long. There’s a real essential juiciness to that which is immanent. And nothing is very immanent in the waiting area. It’s not about rushing so much as paying attention. At some point it’s in or out with the stuff, and with each other. Yes, we eventually must hold on with our two hands or consciously let go, lest the flow is disrupted and we find ourselves marooned in an ocean of irrelevant junk. I see these unsorted things, the physical ones as well as the ones inside me, as distractions from the flow of life. If they are really here to stay then we must own them, give them presence. The water will part around them and a new course will be forged. In that case, we hope that it’s a picturesque course. The less worthy stuff, well, eventually the current gets under it and it’s shifted. Better we usher that process along.

My parents met while waiting in a buffer zone, a veranda space, a political no-mans-land separating Afghanistan from Iran. Like the stuff on my veranda, I suspect they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves, with their lives. So there, waylaid on the overland route through Central Asia between Europe and India, before the world changed and the fear of that journey took such an urgent hold, they communed.

In that liminal space where anything could happen, my organized mum had some cheese in her bag. My dad ate the cheese. Love was born in that fabled wayside garden (at least that’s how I’ve always pictured it) and the rest is history. Such is the directional potential of the veranda space. But you see, at some point they had to leap and choose holding over waiting or drifting. Forty-five years on it seems that it was a fortuitous leap. My mother is still organizing the snacks for the journeys they share.

Unsurprisingly, given the family genesis, my whole life has been conducted in a betwixt and between space, separating the adopted quasi-Indian identity of an Ashram-raised kid from the mainstream Australian life that has always surrounded me. I’m not fully at home in either world. I’m happily listening to bansuri flute as I write, but aside from one real favorite, I keep my saris, piles of them, in boxes on the veranda. It says something.

And my lawn, the more immanent concern of the jungle at my doorstep, no one will mow it if I don’t. I get one point, I’ve had the mower repaired. But it’s not quite the space for picnicking or basking that it could be. And jungles don’t just sit there getting dusty like love letters and old shoes, they are an invasively fertile force, turn your back for a moment and your kitchen will want pruning.

The garden beds are a disgrace. Cracked dry earth hosts a tangle of weeds that is meshed with fallen-down fence. So much for the quiet earth-connected therapy of gardening. At least the blue salvia of last year’s more optimistic spring has come back. Ah, sweet love was in the air. Brave little flowers, still trying while the paltry efforts of human hearts fall short. As potent reminders of this hope and death routine, they make me ache a little.

But somewhere in that tangle of hope and failure are gardening tools. If I can’t manage to grow new flowers today, maybe I can manage to not grow new weeds. That might give the salvia a chance. After that, how about some marigolds? They are tolerant enough for my kind of gardening.

Which brings me to…my life. What gardening tools can I deploy here? I’d like to do more than beat back weeds with my gifts. How about growing something beautiful? It will take digging and fertilizing, some rain and the sun of inspiration.

There are those books I haven’t read that I want to read, just piled up on the table. There are thoughts I haven’t seen through to the end that need seeing through to the end. There’s writing, loving, living, walking.

There are habits, habits of mind and heart, that are anchoring me in ways I don’t wish to be anchored. No one will pull that anchor back on deck if I don’t. Oh for air in my lungs, dew on my face. For that freedom feeling that made my heart sing when I was a wild girl who lived on a horse and wouldn’t brush her hair for anything.

I long to dig my fingers into the fertile ground of inspiration, to make something. Otherwise I’ll be like the rake whose pebbles were tossed. Or I’ll wait in some veranda space to commit to being in or to being out and miss it all. Here springs some tears, the kind that come when we really get down to it. To what we’ve lost, to where we are, to our longings and strife.

My heart is a bit scuffed up. There are people I love and who Iove me that I seldom see or talk to. There are people that don’t care for me at all who get all of my time and attention. Please like me, see the light in me, tell me I’m okay.

If what we do with our time is indicative of what we love, then I love people who don’t love me. I love limiting thoughts. I love making myself small to be nonthreatening to others. I love accepting the meanest half-love in exchange for the fullness of my willing heart. Or maybe that acceptance is indicative of a deeper unwillingness. There’s that too. In any case, it doesn’t work. I feel my expansive spirit keenly; it lights up in the insomniac predawn and bursts to give of itself, and then I flog it off cheap, or quiet it with down-talk, over and over. That’s not graciousness or humility—it’s fear.

And truly I must love my phone more than my books. And I must love that intestinal knot of power cords in the corner. No, actually—I’m going to fix that first. I’m going to fix that and all of it. Oh, the feeling of tangled cords spewing forth from beneath the sofa is truly a kind of soul gunk. The essence of rake must be desperate to unleash itself in here! The essence of garden-rake wants to unleash itself outside, and the essence of me longs to unleash itself most of all.

We all have our reasons for being, little rake. And I’m reminded that the most sublime flowers spring forth from cracked old earth. All it takes is a seed and some water. Maybe so for this heart too, with some encouragement. Come come, little heart.

I might lie under the water for a few seconds. I’ll contemplate my reasons for being and hear the quiet. Then, those knotted cords…the ones on the outside first. After them, the knots on the inside. For those, I’m going to the sea.

Later, little house.

Author: Dhara Des Fours

We are Both the Oppressor & the Oppressed.

Via Sage Dallmus

I am a white, hetero-sexual, cis-gender, upper-middle-class, able-bodied woman, and, if you ask me, I’ll tell you that I’m a good person.

But, sometimes, I’m racist.

It happened on a Tuesday night, behind the espresso bar at the coffee shop where I work.

There was some down-time before the poetry reading we were hosting would begin, an opportunity that my coworker used for productivity, and I used for playfulness.

My coworker, who is of unknown (to me) Asian descent, was weighing out the smoked salmon that would be used later for sandwiches. He poked fun at himself, joking as he struggled to roll the salmon into plastic wrap perfection, that he was going to lose his job. I’m a light-hearted person who will jump at any chance for a joke. I took it one step further, joking—shouldn’t he be better at this? Don’t his people roll sushi?

I didn’t mean it. I was just joking. I am a good person. I am a good person. I am a good person.

This is what my ego—that part of me that needs to feel okay at all times—began saying, buffering a brick wall around myself in protection against any offense, when I had been the one to commit the offense in the first place. Not only did I make an overtly racist comment, but I continued to thwart anything in his response that pointed to that. I continued to thwart anything that left me unguarded, naked, wrong.

As he spoke of his pain—in a veil of sarcasm that so clearly served to cover the wound—I pushed it away with words of, “But I was just messing around. You know I didn’t mean it like that. Right, right, I totally understand where you’re coming from.”

The truth is this: I don’t understand where he is coming from.

I have no idea what the origins of his family are, what the wounds they carry on their backs look like, or how it feels to live in a country where many talk of freedom for all, but few feel it. I don’t know what it is like to be the butt of someone’s joke because of my race, but I am learning that I do know what it’s like to be at the front of aggression.

Whether I meant it or not, whether I was joking or not, what I said was violent.

Not only because my words cut into a history that traces so deep beyond that moment behind the espresso bar—into the paths that his ancestors have walked, sighing—but because I got to poke at a wound and walk away unscathed. Because, though I had been the perpetrator, my coworker was the one left to soften my blow, telling me it was okay. Swallowing his pain to ease my discomfort. Because this happens every day.

Now, I cannot say that I walk away from this situation completely unscathed, for the guilt of my blind privilege is a weight that I carry as well. It just sits on my shoulders differently.

I cannot say that this situation makes me a bad person, but what I’m learning is this: being a good person is sometimes as simple as slowing down to see the person in front of you, to listen to what they have to say. When I finally let my guard down enough to let him speak, let myself admit misstep and messiness—his sharing the story of his pain did not break me down. Did not make me bad, or wrong, or anything. Hearing it made me, if anything, human. Humbled. Here.

And so, this is what I am learning: being a good person is sometimes as simple as listening, and if I am ever to be any sort of activist, it is about learning the subtle difference between when to shut up and listen, and when to scream.

Cut to the next morning.

I have moved forward, because that is what I get to do with my privilege, and I am sitting on the patio of a different coffee shop, sipping on earthy sencha tea and eating a blueberry scone. I am, discreetly or not, people watching. There is nothing more romantic than peeking into the lives of passersby and wondering—if even for a brief second—where they are going. Dressed in a tight black top and flowing lavender skirt, I am sophisticated and soft, confident and serene. I am woman. I am here.

I notice two middle-aged men before me, bantering with each other by the bike rack about a woman whom one of them is evidently pursuing. Make no mistake, I am listening, and as I hear him joke about how this woman needs to be “pounded, pounded into the earth,” my face snarls up into a knot, wound so tight that I can barely untie it. I do not hide my disgust. They see it, and immediately brush it off, because that is what they get to do with their privilege. “There is a woman over there. No more.”

Soon, they part—one friend walks off on his merry way, while the other, the one with the words, walks into the coffee shop. They leave me to fester, with nothing but those words that have been pounded into me so deep that I can barely breathe. I sit there. I see flashes of rape scenes, flashes of my own abuse, flashes of men throwing around micro-aggressions like spare change—walking off cool, calm and collected while I boil over in rage.

I go inside. I go into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to let out the tears that have been shoved so deep inside of me that it is an effort to bring them forth—as with other elements of voice and power.

This is what it looks like to be a woman sometimes. My heart pounds. I think of going up to him. Spitting in his face at the bullsh*t violence that I am done seeing thrown around so nonchalantly. I think of speaking on behalf of all women everywhere. I picture them at my side, a mob of faces from the Congo, East Africa, India and my hometown, Boulder—I picture their voices being sent through my larynx.

I browse the book section. I find a gem of a book—one on love. I hide in it and its reminder that there is hope for the world. I sit down at a table across from him. I can barely read because the fury is still boiling in me. So I write.

I write a letter to him—the man from outside the coffee shop with the violent words. This man who shares the same name as my father, who, if ever he is to have a daughter, if ever he is to have a relationship with a woman, must know that speaking of us in such a way is not okay. It is not okay in joking. It is not okay in seriousness. It is not okay. Women are not to be pounded. We are to be listened to. Appreciated. Respected.

As I sat there writing this letter, my stomach began to feel increasingly unsettled. Not only because of the words that had fallen from his lips so easily, not only because these words had since been shoved into my insides and will stay there for days if not more. But also because these words of mine—a lion’s roar in defense of her kind—may never leave my lips. I may be left to simply chew on the pain, as he walks away with nothing but his springy step, as so many victims of so many aggressions are so often left. This idea made me sick. I would have this no more.

There was a point when he got up and sat outside. There was a point when I went back into the bathroom, stared back at myself in the mirror, and felt my heartbeat pulsing through my entire body. And then, there was a point when I just did it. I walked right up to him in my sexy top and sweet skirt and said, “Hello. I am going to sit down with you. I am Sage.”

And it went just as I would expect—the minute I got to saying what I had overheard, and how it had offended me, he stole the stage from me so quickly that it was like he had set it for himself. I was wrong. I was making the false misinterpretations. I was rude for listening in on a private conversation.

His story of defense did not matter to me. The fact that he did not give me the space to speak did not matter to me. What mattered was this—I, the underdog in a long line of oppression against women, was able to stand up and say, “No. This is not okay.” I was able to interrupt his bullsh*t rather than swallow it whole. On behalf of a history of silence, I was able to speak.

Now, I do not know or care if this man was able to hear me amidst his babbling defenses, telling me that he would never say such a thing towards women, that he is actually an activist. Because either way, painful as it is to admit, I saw myself in this man. In his defenses and his stories, wanting both of us to believe that he was good. I, too, want to believe that he was good, that he is good, that we all are good, amidst our fumbling attempts to be so.

For I see myself in every man putting up a wall, and in every woman in want of one, staying silent because sometimes to speak means to lose a limb, a life.

I know the voice of the oppressor, and I know the silence of the oppressed, and I know that when we learn to exchange these sounds—aggression for humility, quiet pain for empowered rage—we will begin to hear the song of justice in all of our ears. We will begin to honor the weight we carry as the messy badge of being human.

I know that then we will begin to remember, in our hearts and hands and tongues and teeth, what it feels like to be a good person.

~

Author: Sage Dallmus

Confessions of an Overeater: How Emotional Eating Ruled my Life.

Via Maike Soutschka

“Are you really still hungry?” he asks.

I am once again leaning into the fridge, assessing the treats inside. It’s become one of my most familiar exercises: pudgy hand on door, slight muscle strain in the flabby arm as it pulls at the handle. Door sucks itself away from the frame and there it is: that bright, harsh, comforting light, illuminating my treasures.

“Yes,” I mumble, trying to conceal my irritation at the question. How dare he interrogate my intentions, my feelings, my state of being! My attention goes back to the contents of the fridge. Well, kind of.

I want to explore my treasures, think about the tastes I am about to introduce to my tongue, savour the excitement of packets ripped and fingers licked. But there’s a part of me, a tiny, light part, that knocks. That’s all it’s been doing. Knocking.

I’ve been able to shut it up, that relentless knocking, by drowning it in grease swamps and trapping it in sugar castles. But it is persistent and the knocks gradually, patiently, keep reappearing. I am relentless too, though. And hungry, always hungry, always ready to build more castles surrounded by swamps.

And so I manage to eat myself into a 230 pound mountain of rebellion. Always, always, fighting against that pushy knock, trying to shut it up—thick fingers around its throat, squeezing, digging nails deep, sweating until there is no more resistance—at least for a while. I do this over and over and over again. Every day, another murder, just for the sake of silence.

Our bodies are marvellous things, aren’t they? What they do, endure and create for us.

My big body, so courageous to blow itself out of proportion, just for me. It didn’t care about the judgmental glances, it didn’t care that I couldn’t cross my legs or couldn’t see past my bulging stomach anymore. It hugged me, always, every day. It protected me, built a wall of lard around me to keep me safe.

My body was my weapon. It helped me make excuses, gave me the ability to say “I can’t” and it made it believable. It gave me the chance to be ugly to people, push away loved ones, estrange myself from friends. My body reaffirmed my most powerful belief system: I wasn’t loveable anyway.

But if you think my body was great, you should have met my mind! My mind was my hero.

It siphoned unwanted emotions into hunger. It helped me fool myself into believing that I needed to eat that last slice of pizza even though I was full. You see, that full feeling—the peace it spread into every part of me, silencing everything else—it was heaven. My stunning, strong mind that kept convincing me, day after day, that I wasn’t worth it anyway. My lovely mind that allowed me to understand that if people didn’t like me, it wasn’t because of me—it was because of my size.

I loved my body and I loved my mind, as a damaged woman loves her abusive husband; violent but in love, out of control but sorry. Bruised, battered, confused and convinced that this is what love feels like. It’s not their fault, they loved me too. They didn’t know any better, you see. They did their best. And they promised that they would change.

It continued like this for years—trapped in my cumbersome body, self-abusive mind and venomous state of defeat. I was lost in my misery and stuck in my life; the only release found in my little treasures, packets ripped, fingers licked. And so diets came and went; as did exercise regimes and health goals.

But still, that knocking, that incessant, infuriating knocking just would not stop.

Isn’t it amazing how easy it is to convince ourselves of a reality that sweeps us into a claustrophobic confirmation of our belief systems? If a part of you believes that you are worthless, chances are your world will reflect this, too. If a portion of you knows that you are a failure anyway, you’ll get confirmation of it every single day. And if you are convinced that you don’t deserve love, you’ll be right, because you are so good at creating realities that crush any hope—a mortar and pestle, grinding resistance into dust.

And so I existed next to myself, mouth filled with food, eyes filled with tears…empty, sad and broken.

But then, slowly, day by day, the knocking got stronger. No matter what I did to dull them, the knocks turned to drumming, echoing through every one of my cells, shattering the sugar castles surrounded by moats of grease.

Banging, knocking, drumming ripping cracks coursed through that vial belief system. Earthquakes, violent and uncontrolled, crashed through me, punched my foundation out from under me, yanked me out and set me free.

And then there I stood—unprepared, alone, floating.

Alone and free and so lost in a world I hadn’t been in, for what felt like centuries. Alone and free, a tourist in parts of my mind I had never touched and curves of my body I’d never ventured to. Alone and free and light, wildly powerful, the after-shock turning into anticipation and gratitude.

Gradually, that knocking has morphed into a voice. This voice, the voice that saved me, was a gentle whisper in the beginning and I had to strain to understand it although I could always, always hear it. Sometimes we misunderstood each other—I would mistake an insecurity for words spoken by the voice, they sounded the same now and then.

It has taken a while for me to speak its language and I am still learning. It asks me if I am sure that I want to believe everything I think each time I drop into a destructive thought-pattern. It reminds me that my belief system is a choice and I always have the option to make different beliefs. The voice also tells me that everything is as it should be. It makes me laugh, it makes me cry and most importantly: it makes me face myself.

Not as the person who is convinced that they are unworthy of love, but as the person who asks where these beliefs comes from. Not as a person who confronts their body with distance and distrust, but as someone who kneels to it, thanks it for its power and its patience, even if there are still things to change.

Had I listened to that knock earlier, opened the door and welcomed it immediately, it would have reprimanded me for what I had been doing to myself. It would have told me to pack my bags and leave the unhealthy relationship I had been trapping myself in for seven years, governed by a broken, controlling man. I guess I wasn’t ready and I was still so convinced that it was the only life I deserved, ruled by the belief that “nobody else would love me anyway.”

It was a friend stuck in Cairo, in a similar situation, who took on the role my inner voice couldn’t at the time. Over Skype one day she reprimanded me. Her wording shook that internal knocking of mine into new energy and her tone caused the beginning of the crack in my poisonous belief system.

Yes, it is amazing how we can fall into dark depths, reaffirming ourselves as failures, slobs, disappointments or fools.

But what is more amazing is that no matter how thick your wall or deep your swamp, if you listen closely, you’ll hear that knock—the one that won’t ever give up, will keep on knocking until it turns into an earthquake, shattering the foundations of faulty belief systems. This knock that, when you allow it, turns into a voice, gentle and kind, full of strength, made of love and made for bulldozing those dark self-affirmations into tiny, harmless pieces.

I can’t tell you its name, I think everyone calls it something different. I also can’t tell you what it sounds like because this too is unique. I can tell you, though, that it is there. It’s there, waiting for you to free it and all you have to do is listen.

In the beginning it might feel like an intrusion because it will possibly want you to get out of the unhealthy relationship or go and get that dream job or have a baby even if you don’t have a long-term partner. You might still be stuck, safely suctioned onto the “I can’t” or “I don’t deserve it anyway.”

Your voice knows you better than anyone in your life. It knows what you are capable of, and it will keep knocking until the cracks start to show in your belief systems—if that’s what it takes.

Fast-forward six years and minus more than 50 pounds. I could lose more weight, sure. But it doesn’t really matter. I left the unhealthy relationship a few months after my voice broke free and it brought me to a freedom and a sense of self that I never would have imagined for myself. Also, turns out, I’m pretty damn loveable after all. My body and mind love each other, really love each other and I am revelling in it.

And when I lean into the fridge these days, observing its contents, a gentle voice, clear and strong, makes itself heard and understood as it asks me: But my darling, what are you really hungry for?

~

Author: Maike Soutschka

Please talk about spiritual bypassing or avoidance (ET)

 ByEckhart Tolle

Awareness or presence is never avoidance. In awareness, you allow yourself to feel whatever it is that you feel; you do not repress it in any way. Do you sense unresolved pain within? How are you going to resolve the pain except by allowing yourself to feel it?

I believe it was Carl Jung who said, “The fundamental problems are never solved but they are outgrown,” which means you reach a different level of consciousness and there the problem is no longer that important. You grow out of it.
Many problems cannot really be solved. Psychoanalysis tries to solve all the unresolved issues in your life, but you can go on and on with that because the more you delve into it, the more things you’ll discover and at some point you have to step into another state of consciousness that is simply awareness. And then, those things are transcended. You don’t suppress; they’re no longer that important. And some things will subside and dissolve.

Whatever it is you need to understand about your unresolved issues will come into the light of awareness when you allow yourself to feel what you feel. You may occasionally get an insight into something that happened in the past or that caused the pain. The important thing is that you don’t perpetuate or add to the muddle of painful feelings within through mind-identification and further thinking so that your emotions begin to use your mind.

You can’t achieve absolute perfection on the level of form. There will always be certain limitations here and there, things that have been around and lived inside you perhaps, since childhood. They may continue. So it’s only really through transcendence that you go beyond whatever is there that is unresolved but still carried around within you. If you don’t add to the pain within, then it gradually subsides and dissolves in the light of presence.

True Vision of Yourself Lies Within (WD)

To understand the way the ego works, you must realize that this false vision of yourself believes that earth is home. If you identify yourself as no more than an earthling, as the ego wants you to, then your happiness and fulfillment will be in the form of the physical things in the manifest world. 

But there is an aspect of you that knows that these things do not provide the spiritual fulfillment that is the promise of the sacred quest. Planet earth is not your only home. What it offers you is only partially satisfactory to the invisible you within the form of your body. That inner aspect knows that this life on earth is not its ultimate destiny. 

However, most of us have been convinced by the sturdy and determined ego that appearances are what life is about, and that rewards are a result of appearances. The inner self knows that this is all very fleeting because the rewards you receive for youthfulness and physical strength, for example, will diminish as those physical qualities deteriorate. 

The nonphysical you is eternally observing the physical transformation of your body. This realm of the higher self is dominated by an inner self that is aware of the realities of earth and of heaven. It is immune to the pleas of the ego to focus all of its energy on the earth plane. 

Here is how Nisargadatta Maharaj describes it: “The world is the abode of desires and fears. You cannot find peace in it. For peace you must go beyond the world.” And this is what heaven on earth is truly about – an experience of inner peace without the idolatry of possessions and appearances. 

The insightful response to the prayer “…thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven” is found in the awareness that heaven is not of this world. It is in the world of God, the realm where you have destroyed all that you have amassed and where you find the peace that Sri Nisargadatta refers. 

Your higher self is beyond this world of life and death where appearances are touted as all important. 

Some Ideas for Transcending Appearances 

• Take a few moments to become very still. In silence, start to release your attachment to the importance of outer impressions. You might visualize yourself building a huge bonfire and imagine tossing things into the fire. Throw in your jewelry, clothes, automobiles, trophies, everything, even your job title. With each item that goes into this imaginary fire, feel yourself being freer and freer. 

• Remove labels attached to your life. Make an attempt to describe yourself without using any labels. Write a few paragraphs in which you do not mention your age, sex, position, title, accomplishments, possessions, experiences, heritage or geographic data. Simple write a statement about who you are, independent of all appearances. 

• Look for the loving presence in others. Take a day to attempt to see the fullness of God in everyone you encounter. Rather than seeing only another physical being, tell yourself that the Christ in me is meeting the Christ in you. Or spend a day silently reciting the word “love” whenever you encounter another human being. This has such a powerful effect that you may choose to use it as a silent background mantra throughout your day. 

• Remember that you build muscle by picking up heavier objects. This applies to your spiritual weight lifting too. You will build yourself up spiritually by attempting tougher and tougher assignments. One of the toughest assignments is to disregard the ego message to evaluate yourself with the criteria of appearance and possessions. But know each time you are able to be less judgmental toward others or yourself, you are becoming stronger by having taken on the heavier spiritual weights. 

• Cultivate your calling. Make an attempt to shift your career objective from self-absorption to a calling. That’s right, a calling. Remind yourself that this is an intelligent system and that you are here to be love and have love by serving. Use your talents and special interests to fulfill your service with your calling. Your life work will take on a dramatic shift toward abundance, and you will feel on purpose and on the path of the sacred quest.

— Dr. Wayne W. Dyer 

World

"All wars are civil wars, because all persons are brothers and sisters. . . . Each one owes infinitely more to the human race than to the particular country in which one was born." Francois Fenelon

The disease of addiction kept me separate, isolated, and alone. I was so busy seeing how I was different from other people that I missed the similarities. I missed the oneness of creation by always placing myself above it, below it, or outside it; and I was the loser. Even my religion kept me separate. By being Christian, I was not a Jew, Muslim or Hindu. As such, I failed to see the similarities of these major philosophies. I also failed to recognize what all religious people have in common: the inclusiveness of Love, Truth and Forgiveness. God is found in the difference and sameness of all people.

Dear God, I am discovering that differences, when understood, become similarities.