Yeah, I know it's mushy and probably manipulated.
But I'm sitting here in tears, anyway after watching the final scene of the now-old movie Pay It Forward with Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt, "Calling All Angels" on the soundtrack. Sentimental music bypasses my brain and goes straight to my heart. But it's OK; I need to reach down and feel this soft spot now and again.
I invite my coaching clients to watch the movie if they haven't seen it. I tell them that to "pay it forward" is truly all that is required of our lives. Often they believe they have no gifts to offer. But I hold up a sparkling mirror so they can see their brilliance and talents. And gradually, they begin to see what I see - a perfect and whole human being with incredible impact in the world, an impact that is essential for healing and growth.
I realize that I, too, am paying forward the unfaltering love that Victor has shown me through these 17 years. A little after 7 tonight, we went out for a quick dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. A friend joined us, a woman who has returned to GardenSpirit Guesthouse for the fourth time - she loves it here.
After we ordered our food, Victor turned to me and said: "You know, I was thinking on the way home that I really love my job. But as much as I love what I do, I love coming home to be with you even more.
"And I realized that a lot of people don't feel that way. People love their jobs but they don't want to come home; they'd rather stay at work than be at home. I think that's really sad." And he leaned over and gave me a kiss.
My friend sighed and said "Victor, if you weren't already married, I'd want to marry you myself!" Truthfully, most of my close friends tell me over and over that Victor adores me. They notice it. I rarely do. Probably because I bask in the light of it all the time (well, OK, not ALL the time...we are human after all).
I guess the movie reminded me that my job is to "pay forward" the devoted love and support that I have received. Without experiencing it firsthand, I would never be able to notice it in my clients, my family and friends, acquaintances.
What I know for sure is that each of us, without exception, has a place in the world. That space can only be filled by YOU...and YOU...and yes, YOU. And who you are is absolutely necessary and important. All the world asks of us - of me - is to fully express yourself, to be fully who you are. Just as Victor lives his life to the tippy-top. Just as a fictional 12-year-old boy in a movie launched a Pay It Forward movement.
Tears dry. Smiles returned. I hear Victor coughing in our bedroom. Think I'll go snuggle up close to him and appreciate who he is. Wow.
Showing posts with label Self awareness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Self awareness. Show all posts
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Sink The Monitor
For years I was completely unaware of it and, therefore, was at its mercy – that nagging, guilt-laden voice in my head that told me what I “should” do, be and say.
“You can’t eat dessert in front of him – not on a first date! He may never take you out again. Order a salad.”
“You should recycle that plastic bag. The earth is in bad enough shape without you adding to the problem.”
“Don’t go to the grocery store without your makeup on. You’ll scare people. They won’t even recognize you!”
“Am I talking about myself too much? Are they bored? I need to be quiet so people don’t find out the truth about me.”
These may not be the exact “tapes” that ran through my head – fortunately I’ve erased and forgotten them – but the sharp tone and critical nature of the phrases are all too familiar. They were peppered with negative words: “can’t,” “shouldn’t,” “need to,” “don’t,” “have to.” The harsh voice was the ultimate authority; it demanded obedience. And perfection.
As I began to pay attention to this voice – not an easy task when it was so much a part of my mental processes – I realized that it was “watching” me. It was patrolling my thoughts, guarding against mistakes, protecting me from pain. I dubbed my internal voice “The Monitor.”
Much of The Monitor’s advice was gleaned from the people who shaped my life. “Watch both ways before you cross the street” arrived complements of my vigilant parents, who also gave me: “Pull your dress down over your knees,” and “We can’t afford it.”
Schoolteachers provided excellent fodder for The Monitor’s repertoire: “You have to spell it perfectly to get a star on your forehead.” I think the IRS took a cue from America’s public schools, too: “Your income tax records must be accurate or we will add penalties plus exorbitant interest.” And the icy stare from my boss when I was late clearly meant: “You’ll get fired if you don’t get to work on time.”
No wonder The Monitor had staked such a powerful claim. It was being fed constantly by the ‘outside world.” And I was allowing the groundswell of advice to occupy the Truth Section of my brain without much protest.
When I finally realized what was happening – that The Monitor believed I was still a helpless child who needed fierce protection at any cost – I knew I had to push it aside to hear my own adult voice. But if I heard my own voice, would I recognize it? What if it was gone, or worse, it wasn’t “good enough?” (Oops – there’s that darned Monitor again.)
I needed to Sink The Monitor. To keep me dependent, The Monitor always warned me I couldn’t do things without help. In this case, The Monitor was right. I reached out to therapists, I read a lot of self-help books, I worked with a coach.
Ultimately, though, it was my determination to change, to live a life with more clarity and joy, that conquered my dependence on The Monitor. I learned to notice when it nudged its way into my conversations (and more often into my self talk). I would marvel at its wacky and often counter-productive advice. And then I would bring forward my knowledge, experience and wisdom to create a more resourceful thought.
There are a lot of thoughts in my head. It took a long time for me to sort out the new Linda thoughts from The Monitor automated responses. But every day, every week, every year, I get better at trusting the Authentic Me instead of The Monitor.
I have learned to respect and appreciate The Monitor. It stood tall when I most needed a protectorate. It saved my childhood life countless times and its wise counsel has shaped who I am today. Its influence has diminished, but not vanished.
Yes, The Monitor still lives within me. It still does its (very important) job of keeping me safe when I cross the street. Sometimes, however, I misspell words (thank goodness for spell check) and I eat dessert whenever I like. The Monitor slumbers and I don’t feel one bit guilty.
“You can’t eat dessert in front of him – not on a first date! He may never take you out again. Order a salad.”
“You should recycle that plastic bag. The earth is in bad enough shape without you adding to the problem.”
“Don’t go to the grocery store without your makeup on. You’ll scare people. They won’t even recognize you!”
“Am I talking about myself too much? Are they bored? I need to be quiet so people don’t find out the truth about me.”
These may not be the exact “tapes” that ran through my head – fortunately I’ve erased and forgotten them – but the sharp tone and critical nature of the phrases are all too familiar. They were peppered with negative words: “can’t,” “shouldn’t,” “need to,” “don’t,” “have to.” The harsh voice was the ultimate authority; it demanded obedience. And perfection.
As I began to pay attention to this voice – not an easy task when it was so much a part of my mental processes – I realized that it was “watching” me. It was patrolling my thoughts, guarding against mistakes, protecting me from pain. I dubbed my internal voice “The Monitor.”
Much of The Monitor’s advice was gleaned from the people who shaped my life. “Watch both ways before you cross the street” arrived complements of my vigilant parents, who also gave me: “Pull your dress down over your knees,” and “We can’t afford it.”
Schoolteachers provided excellent fodder for The Monitor’s repertoire: “You have to spell it perfectly to get a star on your forehead.” I think the IRS took a cue from America’s public schools, too: “Your income tax records must be accurate or we will add penalties plus exorbitant interest.” And the icy stare from my boss when I was late clearly meant: “You’ll get fired if you don’t get to work on time.”
No wonder The Monitor had staked such a powerful claim. It was being fed constantly by the ‘outside world.” And I was allowing the groundswell of advice to occupy the Truth Section of my brain without much protest.
When I finally realized what was happening – that The Monitor believed I was still a helpless child who needed fierce protection at any cost – I knew I had to push it aside to hear my own adult voice. But if I heard my own voice, would I recognize it? What if it was gone, or worse, it wasn’t “good enough?” (Oops – there’s that darned Monitor again.)
I needed to Sink The Monitor. To keep me dependent, The Monitor always warned me I couldn’t do things without help. In this case, The Monitor was right. I reached out to therapists, I read a lot of self-help books, I worked with a coach.
Ultimately, though, it was my determination to change, to live a life with more clarity and joy, that conquered my dependence on The Monitor. I learned to notice when it nudged its way into my conversations (and more often into my self talk). I would marvel at its wacky and often counter-productive advice. And then I would bring forward my knowledge, experience and wisdom to create a more resourceful thought.
There are a lot of thoughts in my head. It took a long time for me to sort out the new Linda thoughts from The Monitor automated responses. But every day, every week, every year, I get better at trusting the Authentic Me instead of The Monitor.
I have learned to respect and appreciate The Monitor. It stood tall when I most needed a protectorate. It saved my childhood life countless times and its wise counsel has shaped who I am today. Its influence has diminished, but not vanished.
Yes, The Monitor still lives within me. It still does its (very important) job of keeping me safe when I cross the street. Sometimes, however, I misspell words (thank goodness for spell check) and I eat dessert whenever I like. The Monitor slumbers and I don’t feel one bit guilty.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Serendipity reigns
It was just weird. Good weird. But weird.
I was moving slowly thanks to my darned toe. Every time I'd try to hurry, the pain would argue strongly against it. So, I found myself packing for San Diego until nearly 1 am. The alarm was set for 4 am. Three short hours of sleep. I gingerly tucked my foot into bed and slumbered.
Got up on time, but departed for the airport 25 minutes later than expected (slow toe again). I was so sleepy that it didn't dawn on me until we reached the terminal that I would need extra time, not less time to get to my gate. And there were lines. I had less than an hour before flight time and I was hobbling!! My husband pushed my suitcase into the Continental area and kissed me goodbye. I race-hobbled to the check in.
Fortunately, Continental had sent me an email allowing me to print my own boarding pass, so it was quick and easy (I must say I am impressed with this airline). I headed for security and the line...was at least 20 minutes long. And that was just the downstairs line. The upstairs line would be longer and slower. Resigned, I started limping toward the end of the line when some kind of a TSA helper came along and said briskly, "Honey, our escalators are broken, you need to get right on that elevator and go upstairs."
Wow. She had just saved me 20 minutes. I glided upstairs and was promptly inserted into the shortest line. Another 20 minutes saved. Wow. I hoisted my carryon bags onto the x-ray conveyor belt, confident that I would make my flight. But I was stopped. The little boot with the Velcro straps protecting my toe was apparently suspicious, so I had to be checked carefully for explosives. I guess that makes sense. A little.
Then I was off to the gate. Which was ALL the way at the end of the terminal. Where was one of those little carts when I needed one? I took a dozen steps and guess what? One of those little carts was sitting there, idle. I begged a ride and was delivered directly in front of the gate, where I was invited to board immediately. Wow.
I moved slowly to my seat, collapsed and slept all the way to Houston, then waited until everyone else was off the plane to hobble out again. My next gate was only two gates from the arrival. Hurray! But no, this plane wasn't going to San Diego. It was bound for Detroit. There had been a gate change. My new gate was two TERMINALS away.
Miracle of miracles, I managed to hitch a ride on the back of yet another electric cart that had stopped for me. Amazing. It took the CART 20 minutes to reach gate E21. I shudder to think of how long it would have taken me on foot. Or toe.
Once again, I was allowed to board along with "Platinum members." I wasn't allowed to sit with them though. I was still relegated to Economy class. But near the front of the plane anyway.
All that was left was the rental car. At SAN, I retrieved my suitcase, hooked everything together and went out into the balmy California sunshine. The Hertz bus was waiting for me! WOW!
We jiggled and joggled over to the Hertz lot, where the driver let us Gold Members out at the Gold Terminal. Everyone else scurried off the bus to find their cars, but I needed a minute to regroup. I stood right where the driver had dropped my bags and looked around to find the parking place slot for my car, "Roggli, Linda: 200:" blinked the Gold Members sign. Where was 200? There was 212, 202, 201. Number 200 was the white car with its trunk open right in front of me! Wow again. This was really getting weird. Good weird, as I said.
It wasn't over yet. I headed for Escondido, to drop off my luggage a the Hidden Valley Artists' Retreat somewhere up in the hills. I had left my directions at home, but no problem: I had my laptop with the email. Or so I thought. My laptop had failed to download that particular email. Hmmm. I would call. No. My cell phone was dead and I had only a wall charger. No car charger. I stopped at a Shell station, already discouraged that the guy would give me the brush off.
But wait. This was a WOW day. The clerk not only helped me find the address on a map, but drew directions for me! WOW.
And even when I got lost (several times) up and down the dirt roads, people helped over and over again. I made it to the retreat center, but had to leave again quickly to make it to my 2 pm appointment--the reason I flew all the way across the country.
I was 25 minutes late. Took the wrong turn on the I-5 and hit rush hour slowdown. My cell phone was dead so I couldn't call. But I walked in the door JUST as the guy was ready to give up on me. Instead, I made the appointment, did what was necessary and sailed out at 4:30. Wow.
Very weird. A totally WOW day from a series of disasters. The charmed life, I think it's called. It rarely happens to me, especially in this weird sequence one-after-another. But I'm not complaining. In fact, I think I'll order up a few more of theses weird-wow days. Pretty cool, eh?
I was moving slowly thanks to my darned toe. Every time I'd try to hurry, the pain would argue strongly against it. So, I found myself packing for San Diego until nearly 1 am. The alarm was set for 4 am. Three short hours of sleep. I gingerly tucked my foot into bed and slumbered.
Got up on time, but departed for the airport 25 minutes later than expected (slow toe again). I was so sleepy that it didn't dawn on me until we reached the terminal that I would need extra time, not less time to get to my gate. And there were lines. I had less than an hour before flight time and I was hobbling!! My husband pushed my suitcase into the Continental area and kissed me goodbye. I race-hobbled to the check in.
Fortunately, Continental had sent me an email allowing me to print my own boarding pass, so it was quick and easy (I must say I am impressed with this airline). I headed for security and the line...was at least 20 minutes long. And that was just the downstairs line. The upstairs line would be longer and slower. Resigned, I started limping toward the end of the line when some kind of a TSA helper came along and said briskly, "Honey, our escalators are broken, you need to get right on that elevator and go upstairs."
Wow. She had just saved me 20 minutes. I glided upstairs and was promptly inserted into the shortest line. Another 20 minutes saved. Wow. I hoisted my carryon bags onto the x-ray conveyor belt, confident that I would make my flight. But I was stopped. The little boot with the Velcro straps protecting my toe was apparently suspicious, so I had to be checked carefully for explosives. I guess that makes sense. A little.
Then I was off to the gate. Which was ALL the way at the end of the terminal. Where was one of those little carts when I needed one? I took a dozen steps and guess what? One of those little carts was sitting there, idle. I begged a ride and was delivered directly in front of the gate, where I was invited to board immediately. Wow.
I moved slowly to my seat, collapsed and slept all the way to Houston, then waited until everyone else was off the plane to hobble out again. My next gate was only two gates from the arrival. Hurray! But no, this plane wasn't going to San Diego. It was bound for Detroit. There had been a gate change. My new gate was two TERMINALS away.
Miracle of miracles, I managed to hitch a ride on the back of yet another electric cart that had stopped for me. Amazing. It took the CART 20 minutes to reach gate E21. I shudder to think of how long it would have taken me on foot. Or toe.
Once again, I was allowed to board along with "Platinum members." I wasn't allowed to sit with them though. I was still relegated to Economy class. But near the front of the plane anyway.
All that was left was the rental car. At SAN, I retrieved my suitcase, hooked everything together and went out into the balmy California sunshine. The Hertz bus was waiting for me! WOW!
We jiggled and joggled over to the Hertz lot, where the driver let us Gold Members out at the Gold Terminal. Everyone else scurried off the bus to find their cars, but I needed a minute to regroup. I stood right where the driver had dropped my bags and looked around to find the parking place slot for my car, "Roggli, Linda: 200:" blinked the Gold Members sign. Where was 200? There was 212, 202, 201. Number 200 was the white car with its trunk open right in front of me! Wow again. This was really getting weird. Good weird, as I said.
It wasn't over yet. I headed for Escondido, to drop off my luggage a the Hidden Valley Artists' Retreat somewhere up in the hills. I had left my directions at home, but no problem: I had my laptop with the email. Or so I thought. My laptop had failed to download that particular email. Hmmm. I would call. No. My cell phone was dead and I had only a wall charger. No car charger. I stopped at a Shell station, already discouraged that the guy would give me the brush off.
But wait. This was a WOW day. The clerk not only helped me find the address on a map, but drew directions for me! WOW.
And even when I got lost (several times) up and down the dirt roads, people helped over and over again. I made it to the retreat center, but had to leave again quickly to make it to my 2 pm appointment--the reason I flew all the way across the country.
I was 25 minutes late. Took the wrong turn on the I-5 and hit rush hour slowdown. My cell phone was dead so I couldn't call. But I walked in the door JUST as the guy was ready to give up on me. Instead, I made the appointment, did what was necessary and sailed out at 4:30. Wow.
Very weird. A totally WOW day from a series of disasters. The charmed life, I think it's called. It rarely happens to me, especially in this weird sequence one-after-another. But I'm not complaining. In fact, I think I'll order up a few more of theses weird-wow days. Pretty cool, eh?
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