whitespace_100x20Marion Woodman expressed it best: “perfection rapes the soul”.
She was right.

The quest for perfection creates a lonely life. Because when I’m on it, I don’t even have my Soul for company.

Gezelle Rivera - Red Sunset | Creative Commons via flickr - https://flic.kr/p/4sKaHY

Gezelle Rivera – Red Sunset | Creative Commons via flickr – https://flic.kr/p/4sKaHY

whitespace_100x20I’ve been working on a post for a couple of weeks now. It’s an attempt to encapsulate all I’ve learned (and unlearned) in the past few months. And it’s feeling forced.

I’m wrestling with it. It’s not flowing the way I’d like it to. It’s not pouring out of me, like the words do sometimes.

Because I want it to be perfect. Although I’m talking about a process that I’m very much still inside of, I want to be able to present a perfect set of lessons learned. A perfect fable.

I so desperately want to get it right.
And that means I’m getting in my head about it.
Which means I’m getting in my Soul’s way.

So for today, I’m letting it go.
But letting go isn’t easy.

I’m noticing a voice that says “you haven’t published anything yet this month… and you have to publish this”. I feel tightness in my solar plexus and behind my heart as I contemplate letting another month go by without demonstrating to my world that I’ve triumphed over this particular set of personal demons.

The stakes feel high because when I get quiet for a while I can feel that inside the body tension, there’s shame. A deep certainty that my worth is tied to getting it right. And an even deeper conviction that I’m getting it wrong… or not getting it right fast enough.

The internal tension masks some beliefs that feel older than time:
If I can’t figure it out, I don’t exist.
If I haven’t got it sorted, I’m worthless.
If I don’t have the answer, I’m not even here.

And there’s the trap… the game I can never win:
As long as I have to figure it out and find the answers, I’ll never fully be here.

As I give myself compassion for playing the game, my body melts. The armour drops away from my heart. My mind gets quiet. And these words flow.

I’m so tired of trying to get it right. So I’m choosing to ignore the voice that’s pushing me to hit publish on the other piece. And I’m sharing exactly where I’m at in my dance with shame, because that’s all I’ve got today.

I trust it’s useful.