Articles - Loving Circles

by Tracy Neff

The Guts of Our Existence

A crow stands on top of a dead animal, feasting. It plucks and pulls, plucks and pulls. I see white fur. It must have been a dog.

I wonder what the dog was like when he was alive, not long ago, yesterday or earlier today. He was probably a happy dog, bounding from here to there, enjoying his freedom to roam and explore and live.

I feel sad for the dog and its owners. It is sad when something or someone dies, but it happens. It is a part of living. Yet, many of us forget to leave death in its place, where it belongs, at the end of our physical existence whenever that may be. Growing up in a world full of conditions and expectations, we develop insecurities around who we are and fears around whether we will be accepted, or belong, or be seen as "good enough". And many of us, because it is easier, and the "right" thing to do, conform to the expectations of the people around us - our parents, grandparents, society. We give up our uniqueness and the possibility of living our best life, and choose to be common, so we fit in and belong. But, when we choose to be common, we deny who we truly are, and unknowingly welcome death - a slow, sloth-like death - to take part in our lives.

Many of us live flat-line existences. We are afraid to try something different because we don't know what might happen. What if we feel rejected, disappoint someone, or fail? We make up all kinds of stories about why we shouldn't try this or that and keep plodding along doing what we have done for years, what we are comfortable doing. And, in this commonly constructed existence we feel safe, protected somehow from the unknowingness of life. As long as we are in control, everything will be fine - as close to predictable as we can make it.

We get used to doing things a certain way. The laundry is folded a certain way. Guests are entertained a certain way. Our spouses get treated a certain way, good enough that they stick around, but not too good, not so good that it threatens our safety. It doesn't feel safe to be too giving. Our children are clothed a certain way and shown all the "for certain" boundaries. And, should they venture out, break the barrier and wander into new, unexplored territory, we yank them back and tell them, "What do you think you are doing? Don't do that again!" We teach them well how to construct small steel boxes in which to contain their lives - small because comfortable lives don't take up much space, and steel to make it almost impossible to break into or out of.

But, in all the careful designing and constructing of our steel boxes we forget to leave room for spirit, freedom, spontaneity, possibility, and fun. Through all the control,

we inadvertently pluck the guts out of our existence - the red stuff, the gooey, messy stuff that brings us to life, that is who we are. Without the guts, we are the white furry dog that lies lifeless on the side of the road.

Most of us don't recognize we are dying before our time. Most of us are comfortable living flat-line existences. As long as we keep walking at a reasonably fast

pace down the straight and narrow road, we don't have time to look around and see the possibilities. We wonder sometimes what it would be like to walk slowly down a road that winds to the left, then the right, up a hill and down a mountain, but that's as far as we get because the steps it takes to break free of our containers are big ones. It requires us to let go of the reigns of control, look inward, and feel our feelings - all the fears inside us we forgot were there. It requires us to remember who we gave up to become common.

For years I ignored the voice that told me there was more to my flat-line existence, more to who I was than I projected to the world, or myself. I didn't perceive myself to be a controlling person. I didn't think I lived inside a container. I was easy-going, optimistic and liked to have fun.

But one day after an unplanned pregnancy, quickly planned wedding, and two more children, I realized how out of control I felt. I had done nothing of what I truly wanted to do in life. Instead of becoming an interior designer, instead of writing, I became a teacher because it was practical. But, my heart wasn't in it. I tried for six years to change the calling of my heart, but it didn't work.

When I got pregnant it was my opportunity to escape from a job I did not enjoy and to stay at home. I became a stay-at-home mom but my heart's desire was not there either. I never said anything, fearing I was a horrible mother, a failure for sure and that people would gasp in disgust if I were to voice the truth of how I really felt. So, I kept doing what I was supposed to do but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to who I was besides a mother and more to my life than I was living.

One day I paid attention to the voice inside me that whispered, "something is missing," and allowed myself to feel the mixed up bag of emotions that I had held inside for years. I cried out my insecurities, my hurts, my sorrows and my guilt. I cried out everything I had been trying to contain. There were many times when I wanted to stop feeling, pretend I had never "let go" and slam the lid back on. But, a strong feeling inside my chest kept telling me that somewhere in this unexplored, "unsafe" territory, were my guts.

I took an honest look at my life and saw how I had used manipulation as a means of controlling others around me, as a way to keep my life predictable and safe. For the first time, I became conscious of my manipulation and saw it for what it was - Control.

When I was little girl, I was a pleaser. I learned that I got attention by doing what others wanted me to do. So I did. I was the "good girl", the "smoother-over," because it got me the attention I wanted, it made me feel loved.

I also learned the "poor me" routine. As a child I was often sick and this got me lots of attention, especially from my mother. I have held on to this manipulation tactic, this form of control because it works for me. "Poor me, look, I have three children under age six. My life isn't going as planned. I'm not happy. I feel trapped. Poor me. Poor me."

When I was a teenager and my mother moved away the "poor me" tactic didn't work. My father, who I moved in with, was too busy to notice me, much less feel sorry for me, so I got busy feeling sorry for myself. I began making up stories that I wasn't deserving of attention. I also developed a defense that screamed, "Fine, I'll do it myself then." I began removing myself emotionally from the outside world because I didn't trust others would be there for me.

In the department of intimate relationships, I chose men who liked me more than I liked them because it was safe. They felt devastated when we broke up, not me. I protected my heart by manipulating my surroundings, by breaking other people's hearts instead.

I learned what I should do and shouldn't do. What I would get praise for and

punishment for. Which parts of me were acceptable and which parts of me were not. I learned to build a container that would isolate and protect my heart from the pain of rejection, not belonging, not being good enough. And it worked, sort of. The container protected my heart from feeling completely broken but it also isolated my heart

from feeling full of love. The manipulation I used to seal my container never allowed anyone close enough to see me, the real me. And, eventually, I couldn't see myself.

It wasn't nice to become aware of all the ugly things I had done to "get my way", to make things predictable. I felt tremendous sadness and guilt over hurting people to protect myself. I also felt sadness over shutting down huge chunks of who I was born to be to become who I was "supposed" to be. But, as I kept looking, feeling past my fears, sadness, and guilt, I could see beauty in what once looked ugly. I recognized that I had to be there in order to get here, a place of acknowledgement and awareness, a place where I could stop containing and start expressing the uniqueness within myself, where acceptance of all parts of me (the good, the bad and the really ugly) came from within and no where out there.

I didn't see my control until I was completely over-run by it, until I stopped defending and pretending that I was okay. I wasn't okay. I felt lost. Off course. Alone. And I was tired. Containing myself and manipulating my way through life had taken a lot of energy. My guts had slowly been plucked out and it was me who had done it. I was the crow that plucked and pulled, plucked and pulled. My fears of what other people might think, my "certain ways" of doing things, and the "supposed to's" that filled my container left no vacancy for the guts of who I truly was.

I kicked my way out of my steel box, over time, through one realization then another and I crawled through the opening to take a look, to see what this new place inside myself looked like. I didn't receive a clear answer. There wasn't a clear view, but I could feel a promise of something more, something exciting, something that said there was more to who I was than I could ever imagine and that my life was much, much bigger than the container I had stuffed it into.

I trusted the voice of my heart and discovered that "beyond my control" is a place far more beautiful and exciting than inside a box. I am doing things I have always wanted to do but never had the guts to try, like writing and singing. I am asking directly for what I want instead of manipulating a situation to make it work out the "certain way" I had in mind. It feels a little scary to be so direct, it puts me in a vulnerable position, like I'm naked, unprotected from all kinds of potential hazards - rejection, criticism, and jealousy to name a few - and it also feels exciting, like I am finally standing up and acknowledging myself.

Recently, I found the guts to tell my husband how I really felt about housecleaning. For years I used housecleaning as a way to get my husband's attention, as a way to "please" him. "Oh, wow, the house looks great," he would say and I'd at least get a kiss and hug out of it. But, I hated that I had to clean the house to be noticed and recently I stood before him and told him how I felt. I broke down crying, the feeling of loneliness was a seemingly endless dark hole. He held me and comforted me, and

through my tears I said to him, "Honey, I will never be a great housecleaner. It just isn't who I am. But, I could be a great writer." We laughed a little and he held me and I felt close to him in my moment of truth. It's been easier to breathe since then.

Sometimes what I have to say isn't always what I am "supposed" to say or what will please others, but I go for it anyways because honoring what I have to say is a way of honoring who I am. I also honor how I'm feeling and express it in the moment instead of holding onto it. I say "no" more often. I say "yes" and really mean it. Honoring how I feel and what I have to say allows me to be seen so I don't feel as isolated anymore, and I don't have to slide into the "poor me" or the "pleaser" modes to get attention. If I need attention, I just ask for it. Strange concept, I know, but it works. Living from my heart takes practice and I am not always good at it, but it feels cleaner than how I lived before, freer, more alive, gutsy.

In a lecture I went to recently, Marianne Williamson, an author and spiritual teacher, referred to the evolutionary pictures of man we were exposed to as children in our science textbooks. The pictures implied once we became fully upright walking homo sapiens that that was it, end of the story, we had evolved. Then she said, "How arrogant we are to assume evolution has stopped." Perhaps the next evolutionary phase of our existence has to do with letting go of control and finding our guts.

I imagine that dead dog I saw lived well before the car came along. I bet he enjoyed life, wagged his tail, spun around, barked playfully, and traveled many winding roads. I bet he didn't live inside a container. I bet his guts were fully intact and he

shone with aliveness right up until the car hit him, when death came, right where it belonged, at the end of his existence.

We have something to learn from the dead dog and the plucking crow. Death will surely come. It will find us sooner or later. That is inevitable. But, it is a choice to leave death where it belongs, at the end of our existence, and not to drag it into our present lives, where it will feast on the place within us that doesn't believe there are certain ways of doing things, that says, "Yeah, let's try that!" where steel boxes don't exist but roads that wind to the left, then the right, up hills and down mountains do.

I have a lot of territory to explore still. I have a lot to see and hear and learn. I am still evolving. It's a process and a choice and it begins by choosing to look at how we control our lives, how we stuff them inside small, often narrow containers and how, when we do this, we pluck the guts - the core of who we are - out of our existence.

It's a choice. And, it's yours.

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