16 Minutes
How often do I sit still with myself? 16 minutes a day. On a good day. Less, if you count distractions. If you count where I look to find whatever is buzzing, or remember that I didn’t communicate with so and so. In 16 minutes I might be able to be quiet enough to let the door open and the fresh air to come in. On a good day.
The door. The escape. The thoughts that go down the rabbit hole and explode into colors. Where I take off the filters and don’t care about naughty words or hidden meanings. I stare at it full on, until my eyes water. Blunt honesty.
I am scared of what might be there. Scared of myself. I spend so much time trying to be strong and sure, but I can’t hide from me. I can hide from those 16 minutes. The loving gift of technology: distraction. I am resourceful enough to keep busy so I don’t have to look at what is going on inside me.
Like any good road, there is a ditch on either side. The fear of the discovery that all the horrible stuff I thought I had the ability to do is reality, and the fear of the discovery that all the dreams and desires I wished I had the ability to do are true. That second fear may be stronger and worse than the first.
“It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate—our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure…We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.” —Marianne Williamson
Any time I feel glow-y it scares me because I never know when it will run out. And I don’t know how to bring it back. And what if I am never glow-y again? Will I still be special? Will I be able to help anyone? Will I still be me? If I don’t know who I am, who will tell me? If they tell me, are they really telling the truth? The world too busy with bigger problems than to pamper my continual search for self.
And then I find it in someone else: the glow. The magic. The inspiration of candles in the bottom of beer bottles or homemade coloring books. The dance of elegance or the words misaligned to perfect disarray. And I want it.
I was captivated by the capoeira dancer: the hours he put into learning, perfecting, molding, and being. He created beauty in movement. I wanted it. I could suddenly imagine being the best darned capoeira dancer there was. With a little determination and a lot of sweat. But it wasn’t capoeira I wanted—it was the beauty. The skill. To be uniquely good at something.
My nitch. The corner where I am queen. I haven’t found it yet. I majored in general studies: a whole lot of a little bit of everything. And I want it all. A mile long and an inch deep. Yuck. I study something with all the energy of a new crush, fawning over it—my marvelous new idea. Then it gets more complicated, requiring more than I am willing to invest, and I drop it into the recycle pile that goes out tomorrow.
“If I traded it all, if I gave it all away for one thing--just for one thing. If I sorted it out, if I knew all about this one thing, wouldn’t that be something.” –Finger Eleven. But that would be putting all my eggs in one basket. And we all know that bread falls butter side down. Nothing will stick. Am I old enough now to need to just hunker down and make it work? I never want to hunker down.
It is easier to call on one of many distractions, and ask them to idly chat through my 16 minutes. Rather than risk the complications of what I might find if I took the time to look inward and see what is ticking. I don’t want to find that I am only just pretending.