So often, I see only the things I wish I were doing or wish I already were. I rarely notice how much I am already doing or what I already am. I tend not to give myself very much credit. When others do, some strange phenomenon takes place in which the words they are speaking become garbled, and though I recognize the words they are saying, I can’t make sense of their combination.
This, I think, is starting to change, if only by a teeny tiny degree.
It feels as though I am waking up very, very slowly. As though each day, I see just a little bit more. If I had a therapist, she might say that I am integrating. I want to speed up this process, skip right to the good stuff I imagine waiting on dangled thread long down the road, but I can’t. It is all happening as it happens. In the only way it can for me. I am somewhat okay with that tonight.
The truth is, every day is different, even when it seems to me to be exactly the same. Every day, I am different, even if only infinitesimally so. The change so small, I miss it completely.
I often think I am the same as I have always been. This couldn’t be less true, but it doesn’t stop me from believing it for moments or days at a time. I cling to the things that comfort me; familiarity, even when it’s painful, is a comfort to me. I like knowing, or at least, believing that I do.
So my practice seems, more and more, to be about letting go.