This is a sort of “mission statement” that I often encourage writers to compose from time to time. A teaching I heard once is that there is a time to flap our wings and a time to soar. The mission statement gives us a moment to pause, see where we are, and where we are going, and enjoy reflecting on our reasons for being here. A moment to soar. This was my recent moment to soar, written early in the day, the first day of our Yoga, Writing, and Recovery series, Writing on the Bodies: The Koshas In Recovery.
I am not my body, and yet here it is, growing, changing, becoming stronger in some ways, weaker in others; the skin and bones and structure shifting day by day, moment by moment, sometimes spacious, other times constricted.
I am not my energy, and yet here it is: the flow of life in me, resilient- fluid, or stuck; bright and clear, or stagnant and heavy, or somewhere in between.
I am not my mind, and yet here it is: full of memories, happy and sad thoughts, resentments and opinions and bad attitudes; and warm, tender, kind thoughts, too.
I am not my character, these things I’ve done, or not done, ways I’ve reached out, or avoided, and yet, here it is: as I’ve stepped beyond the limits of comfort toward understanding and acceptance; or closed off completely, though I’d wished better of myself.
I am not this great heart within, or these identities I hold, and yet, there they are, that great spirit, that source; and me; I am a part of it and it is a part of me that these years of recovery have shown me is ever-present, undeniable, unconditional, and joyous, even in hard times.
Years ago I made the decision to include these parts of me, to get real with myself, to find the route inward to spirit, to drop anchor, to trust the waves of knowing and unknowing, to find the safe harbors which hold my people. To listen, withholding judgment. To neither exalt nor diminish joy or sorrow. To understand that everything has a purpose. Nothing is wasted.
I made the decision to see things differently. To see how the tide changes, and the view, and the way the waves strike the boat, violently; or lap quietly against my awareness. To expand my vision, to let my mind be changed when new information comes. To see my story in a new way, to revisit the past with fresh perspective- and when that was not possible, to take care of myself until the confusion passes and things become clearer.
I made the decision to understand the inner workings of the mind, to understand how things happen, how we suffer, and why; to discern wise action from unwise, to listen to the teachers, the elders who walked this path long before me; made the decision to let the wheel be the wheel, and not to re-invent it but to find my own clunky language to communicate what I was learning- what I’m still learning.
I made the decision to move and speak in a way that centers the heart- though I will forget, say things that are abrupt, or unkind, resist my own heart and become self-righteous, I try to remember to be gracious, to forgive, to extend my heart through compassion that says: I know that feeling. I’ve felt it before. I know what it was like to suffer long nights, or gritty mornings, with interminable grief or anguish or embarrassment or regret and, not knowing any other way, to say, I surrender. Show me a different way. Please, take this from me.
I made the decision to be in this body, but not of it; to be in this mind, but not of it; to be in this world, but not of it. To be a part of things without becoming the things themselves. To trust the process and the flow of life to lead me where I am meant to be.
Each day I make this decision: To be here. To be a part of life, to make the space, to find the joy, the delight, through the waves of being.
