I have a confession to make.
I shrink when a car--foreign or known--pulls into my driveway. I tense when the phone rings, dread the responsibility of returning voice mail. Emails are better, for there is safety in the computer, a tiny silver place to hide. But even some of those emails can make me squirm when I read the name on the in-box.
I like hiding. It lulls me into a false sense of security, gives me the blessed illusion that I am free. And safe. But oh when that illusion shatters, as it does at least twelve times a week, I am unmoored, dog-paddling in a sea of responsibilities, my nose just above water.
And yet.
Within the past couple of years, my paradigm has shifted. There's a new world outside my door, because the world inside has significantly changed. A Dorothy-Gale tornado struck the realms of my soul, shook everything up, knocked me on the head to make more room for clarity and consciousness, and now when I open the door to the world and its inhabitants, just like Dorothy, all things appear different. Because they ARE different.
It's a new day. And it's full of color.
So why do I cling to my little sepia-filled room so often? Here I am, a whole new Oz-like world outside my door and all I can do is sit in my little sepia space tending to my routine, to the known, to myself and my little dog, too. A knock at the door, a ringing of the phone, a bump or thump of noise attesting to life outside and all I can do is cringe at the prospect of opening the door.
Ironic, isn't it? That the woman who wrote A Knock at the Door --who has no problem opening inspiration doors--has a huge problem opening participation doors?
I woke this morning to the third email from an organization on the west coast inviting me to speak at a women's retreat next spring. When the first email arrived I thought, "Well, that's nice. I should investigate." The second email arrived a few days later and I mentally added a return email to my to-do list. When the third email arrived this morning requesting that I phone if I was interested, I verbally beat myself about the head and neck. Accusation-arrows flew, defenses shot up. But a few arrows lodged deep enough to send me to the dreaded return phone call. So picture me, holding this black, plastic phone in my hand. Just looking at it. Well, sneering at it, really. With contempt. Why did it feel like led? Why was I filled with dread? Why do I rhyme? All the time? Like Dr. Seuss? On the loose?
Because hiding is a habit. And once it moves in, with its side-kick procrastination, well, you know the saying. It's easier to become a nuclear physicist than to break some habits (like eating chocolate for breakfast or leaving your laundry in the dryer for a month).
Thanks to Hiding and Procrastination, "available" is not what jumps to most minds in the Angi-word association game. Except for a two-year period after paralysis, my inner door (the door to my soulscape) has always been open. Even during emotionally painful or physically demanding times I rarely close it. But the door to the outside world? The one that involves humans and circumstances, interaction and appointments and obligations? That remains mostly closed and closely guarded. On any given day the sign above my energetic "outer" door reads Nobody gets in to see the Wizard, not no way not no how! On the better days, when there's a knock at the door, a window pops open and a figure shouts down to the knocker below "Go away and come back tomorrow!"
The sad news: it comes from years of feeling I had to earn, had to perform, had to work at being good enough. (Sound familiar?) Whether in business or personal relations, I'd put demands on myself to live up to outrageous expectations then raise the bar to outperform myself, like a circus seal. My job demands I interact on many levels with people all over the world, and when I've got my game face on, I am hella-good with a round, red rubber ball. But that watch-me-keep-these-balls-in-the-air kind of performance requires huge amounts of energy. I entertain and interact with the outside world with so much vim and vigor, so much gold-star-standing-ovation energy, that when I'm done and the show is over, a large amount of slothful, quiet time is needed to recharge. Doors knocking sound like intrusion. Phones ringing sound like pressure. Emails dinging sound like obligation. And together, they sound like a cacophony of "Too Much."
The glad news:
It's over.
Well, "over" might be a bit optimistic and a tad on the definitive side. I mean, it was just this morning I was sneering at the phone. But in mid-sneer, I remembered The Voice, which made my shoulders drop and my sphincter relax.
Last month I agreed to house sit on Whidbey Island because it would give me an opportunity for some dearly-needed solitude, while also providing me an a chance to see friends and trees and beaches I'd been missing for a year. During my time alone, I did a lot of reading, writing and meditating. I practiced what I call Deep Listening, which is basically just slowing down the incessant mindless chatter in my brain so that some mindful goodness can get in. The one question I sat down with each day was "What's next for me?" I'd moved to the desert, started a new life of creativity, wrote a book, reformed a business, but still felt as though I hadn't hit the target. I feel poised, like a rock in a catapult, ready to be sling-shot somewhere, but in the meantime, I'm just on hold. In the air. In a sling. Twiddling fingers.
Imagine my shock, my utter horror, when the answer arrived over candlelight and smoking sage with these words: "At some point you've got to show up." It was The Voice--the inner one--speaking calmly. Serenely. With a friendly tone. Then why did everything inside me shriek like a girl drenched in pig blood on her prom night? The Voice might have said "You will be an accountant for the rest of your adult life." It was that bad.
Yet I knew instantly it was my answer.
Sometimes you gotta pick up the phone when you don't know what to say. Sometimes you gotta write a boring, uninspired email. Sometimes you gotta answer the door with Oreo stains on your nightgown and a melting, half-eaten pint of Ben-n-Jerry's ice cream in your hand. Sometimes you gotta show up being your sloppy half-assed self. Because sometimes, showing up is the only thing that matters.
Like today. With this phone in my hand dialing a California number, worried that this opportunity will not live up to my expectations and for me it'll be one more day in the catapult. Or worse, that this opportunity will live up to my expectations and I'll fail miserably. I'll take all my years of experience and writing and inspiration to the stage and nothing will come out. I'll stumble or flail. I'll look like a dork. Or a bore.
I dial the number and a throaty, female voice picks up the line and says, "Yay! I'm so glad you've called! I'm dancing with excitement at the prospect of you joining us!" when I tell her it's Angi Sullins calling. Over the next hour she proceeds to tell me all manner of lovely things, welcoming things, warm, genuine, inviting things. In fact, she says so many things that align with my goals and visions that when I hang up an hour later, I feel I have just entered a Dream Come True. I've been blessed with an opportunity to be paid to do something I would absolutely do for free.
And I smile to myself as I'm walking back to set the black, plastic phone on its cradle. I'm so pleased with myself and life in general I'm humming a little lullaby to the phone as I snuggle it into its nest. I pat it a little, a friendly gesture. Things are changing. Actually, things already have changed. I'm just now seeing it with clear eyes.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps over the past two years of soul searching and self-excavation, I got down off the performing-seal platform. I haven't left the circus (heaven forbid!) I've just changed location. I am now the ringleader, mistress of ceremonies. I call the shots. The center of my energy has shifted from the Doing (rubber balling, ark! ark-ing! flippers clapping) to one of Being (red tuxedo-ing, top hat wearing, standing tall in the center circle). I no longer define myself by performance. In fact, it's enough just to stand in the center, my soul alive and glinting in my fabulous red-sequined tuxedo and my black top hat. When the music strikes up and the spotlight shines, I direct the acts of my life: which projects to take on, which responsibilities to tackle, which pleasures to indulge. I stand in the center and determine where and how and when the "doings" of my life will happen.
It's just that...well. Some mornings I wake up with amnesia. I grab my red rubber ball and go sit at my desk. The phone rings. There's a knock at the door. And I put the rubber ball on my nose and begin the old circus act of doing, doing, doing. All for a slimy fish. Or a peanut. And that's exactly what happens when you forget who you are. You do and do and do and it gets you very little. Sometimes it gets you nothing. And on the worst days you perform and outperform--you balance that ball, juggle it with many others while doing backflips and headstands--and all you get in return is suffering. Disappointment. Emptiness. Heartache.
But when I remember who I am, I wake up and put on the red sequined tuxedo, grab my black top hat and cane and walk to the center circle. And let's face it, it's almost impossible in that get-up to expect anything less than greatness. That phone call? It's Blessing, hoping I'll pick up. That knock on the door? It's Happiness, looking for a room to rent. That email? It's Opportunity and she brought her cousin Abundance.
Oh I'm not saying that when you remember who you are and act from the center of your soul that all the world's a blessing. Well, actually yes. I am saying that. It's just that sometimes that Blessing is disguised as a boss who micro-manages everything and complains you can't do anything right. Sometimes Blessing is disguised as a failing relationship or a fledgling business. A rejection, an obligation, a tax bill. But mostly Blessing likes to dress up as Heartache. It's one of her favorite costumes.
But there's you in your red sequined tuxedo that screams "I dare you not to bless me!" And who can resist those sparkles? The authority of a top hat? The command of a white-tipped black cane? And so you are blessed. And the more you can see into the heart of that truth, the more the blessings show up as themselves, without the disguise. The more you know who you are and can stand your ground in the center of yourself, the more you see beyond the surface appearance of things, those blessings show up in whatever form you call upon.
Now, if only I could remember.
Today I am remembering. There's me, hovering over the black, plastic phone humming a little lullaby. There's me looking through the window at the purple Taos mountains, the nodding yellow sunflowers, the last of the jewel-feathered hummingbirds circling my orange hibiscus tree before heading to Brazil for winter. There's me, walking back to my safe, little studio to type this missive, a Toto-sized dog in my lap. There's been a loud knock at the door and today I remember who I am, so I open it. There's a bunch of bearded, balding midgets smiling at me. The flower dancers are winking. The lollipop guild is beaming. I suck in my breath with the bedazzlement of it all. "For me?" I ask. YES! "All this color and creativity for me?" YES! "Sunflowers made of gold and birds made of emeralds? For me?" YES "Scarecrows and Tin Men and Chihuahuas-oh-my? For me?" YES! "Witches who teach courage and godmothers who teach wisdom and wizards who teach authenticity? All for me?" YES! "And fabulous shoes?" YES! YES! YES! I hear The Voice chanting as if channeled through Glenda the Good: "Anything you want, in this great, gorgeous, colorful universe, all yours just for the asking. And the clicking. Those shoes aren't merely to match your amazing red tuxedo."
I smile and walk to the door of my adobe hearing The Voice fade like a giant, pink bubble over the fields of Oz, even as I reach for the brass doorknob: "Ask and click. And expect great things. You've got the will and the shoes to match."
But first, you gotta open the door.
