Being a guy with a spiritual bend, am subject to stories. Have learned recently how much words affect me, how fragile my ego makes me. Predisposed to the story that there is something wrong with me, something seriously wrong, it emotionally shreds me to hear rumors of rumors that my performance in a job was flawed, that my contribution to the team was judged negatively. Wondering and worrying about what people said and are saying about me sets me up for emotional tug of war. One end pulls with strong story that there is something seriously wrong; I should quit. The other pulls with fighter pilot ego, strenuously defending myself in my own mind, seeking comfort in stories that counter, that assert I am good, I am damn good. I put myself on trial in my own head and make myself prosecutor, judge, and jury, eager to convict and punish, even to the point of physically harming myself. In emotional pain, for integrity’s sake, it would feel only right to have physical suffering. What concerns me of late: I may, like an addict, need this emotional drama. I may behave to establish this kangaroo court in my head because I end up in some kinda sick but comfortable funk that causes me to wallow in worry, in fears, to walk on egg shells in the midst of friends and co workers. Instead of being a man who seeks truth in the job and Truth about life, I end up in the court’s attached jail: distraught, behaving with hesitation, mealy mouthed, milquetoast. Not swinging away at life I ride the bench, like I did with deep emotional pain in ninth and tenth grade during baseball season.
I quit baseball after that. Quitter? Yes, that is true. In eleventh grade I turned to lacrosse to stay in the game. So, it’s also true that I continued playing. Ron Harris, Jr, with the eye of the artist and whose words have often cut to the chase in my life, reminded me a couple of years ago I am a survivor. Have come to realize that as a tremendous dynamic. Through all the failures, through all the seriously impossible situations where I glommed onto the story that something is wrong with me, I have survived.
Am looking at the stories I tell myself, the legalistic trials my mind plays and replays. Truth is, that is selfishness. So, the courtroom in my head begins the proceedings: Accuser tells me how bad I am because I am selfish. Rejects the word "fragile," tells me I am "weak." Strongly advises, "Admit it. Give up and die." But the ego rushes to defend with proof, asserts I am doing great things here in Afghanistan, that the understanding and insight that come from me today will fix the problems here and teach the Afghans the right way to live, that I, among all here and now, am more valuable than those around me, of whom I can speak negatively, whom I must derogate to feel better about myself. What crap!
When I stop, be still, listen to silence, perhaps in prayer, a still small voice intimates: that courtroom drama, striving to convict me to its attached jail and demean those nearby, leads to neither here and now nor there and then. The firm and gentle voice suggests to keep on, with dignity. It's okay I still don't get it. Continue to swim in a sea of unknowing by the grace of the Power, Presence, and Person. Instead of value negative terms like "weak," "selfish," "hopeless," that still small voice uses words like "fragile," "My beloved child," and "faith." Truth points toward a different venue for drama, a theater with a different story, whose seats, stage, and walls are made of wood from the Tree of Life. And that theater has a Tavern attached! Where can I buy tickets to that theater? Who mints the coins accepted as legal tender at that wild and fun Tavern?
Happy Easter. Thank you for your prayers; they have delivered me through a terrible desert.
Tim
