I believe that I need eight hours of sleep to function well. I believe that I’m not very good when it comes to money matters. I believe that those who are – are more intelligent than I even though I have seen proof to the contrary. I believe that I am too fat no matter how thin I get. I believe that I am not a great judge of character, that I trust too easily, am easily duped. I believe that I am too emotional and not the greatest at exercising common sense.
I believe I have not been such a stellar mother or bread earner or responsible adult. I also believe that even though I can write pretty well, when it comes down to it, I really don’t have much to say and who wants to hear it anyhow?
The list goes on. One after another of all the things I tell myself about myself. Are they honest self-assessments or simply the result of decisions made by me about me at some specific time in the past? At three, ten, nineteen, at twenty-five – are these the conclusions I came to based on my judgment at that age, skewed by a limited critical capacity? Am I forever doomed to think of myself as fat simply because I was chubby at eight?
Now don’t get me wrong. I certainly believe in looking within. I’m all for what AA calls, “making a searching and fearless moral inventory.” I’ve been trying to do just that for most of my adult life. But how do we separate truth from fiction? How do we let go of the stuff that simply “ain’t necessarily so anymore”?
The trouble with beliefs, as I see it, is that not only can they be formed erroneously, but they tend to harden – to set like cement in the convoluted grey matter of the brain. They persist as truth long after they are not. They become very familiar, comfortable, kind of like an old pair of sweat pants, full of holes. You can’t wear them anywhere but you can’t bring yourself to send them to Goodwill either.
Suppose that in this very instant I decided to turn these old beliefs upside down. Just let them go. Suppose I decided I only needed three hours of sleep a night, or that I was great with money, both making it and saving it. Suppose I decided that I attracted exactly the right people into my life, and intuitively knew who to trust and who not to. Suppose I believed with certainty that when life got really tough, I was sure to come through just fine, that I could ride any rough wave with ease and grace. Suppose I was secure in the knowledge that though I’m no William Faulkner, there was still a place for my voice in the world.
Wishful thinking? Or thinking what you wish for? I don’t know. But imagine the possibilities if I could revise the narrative, rework the script? I wonder who I’d be then. I wonder what I could do in the world. Sounds like it’s worth a shot.
And you?
Sixties Chick 