It’s been an interesting week.
The mean voices of my Inner Critic, which live in my left brain, have been pretty rowdy. It makes sense, when you think about it.
The Inner Critic’s task is to run about like Chicken Little, yelling that the sky is falling! She reaches this conclusion by using the interesting strategy of predicting the future based on the worst disasters of the past.
Often her statements begin with How could you…. What were you thinking… Nobody with any sense…
Well, you get the drift.
I find this learning from my teachers in all things metacognitive, Shiloh Sophia and Jonathan McCloud, to be vital in deciding how much power to give the mean voices in any given moment.
If there is, in fact, a 12 foot gator snapping its jaws just below the footstool of my magic chair, it’s well worth pondering the perspective of the Inner Critic.
Lacking the gator, or its equivalent, it might work to get a mug of bone broth, take some deep breaths, and ponder the bigger picture, preferably a bright, clear picture of my deepest, most true dream.
A couple of nights ago, the voices of the Inner Critic were joined by some other loud noises.
The first was the horrific squall of a smoke detector begging for a new battery. The studio angels and I were not amused. While I ran to put the poor beasties outside, Bill got the step-ladder and saved the day.
By the time my heart rate reached something resembling normal again, I remembered to give thanks that it was a false alarm and no actual fire was involved.
A bit later, the TV made the almost equally horrific bast that signals some sort of public alert. Relieved that it wasn’t an Amber Alert for a missing child, I was still less than thrilled to discover that we had a flash flood warning posted. Floods, you see, are a touchy subject around here, after some recent challenges with our basement.
Shortly thereafter, the storms that one would assume went along with the weather warning began in full force.
Torrents of rain. Thunder and lightning. Another of the beasties’ favorite events. And, lacking advance notice, no CBD oil on board. It was, in the immortal words of Snoopy, a dark and stormy night.
Blessedly, we did okay.
No water in the basement that night or the next morning, thanks in large part to the brilliant detective work of my friend and handy-wizard, Greg Camp. No trees down, which is far from a sure thing in our neighborhood. And the morning chorus of birds on the job.
First, I let myself feel the relief.
Then I pondered all the folks who might not have been so fortunate. And I made some more dots.
There were gunshots very near our house Friday night. Again. And I so wish I didn’t know instantly that they were gunshots.
Then, I woke today to an email from Bernie Sanders with news of two more mass shootings this weekend.
I signed the petition to push the Senate to come back from recess and allow debate on gun safety.
I made a contribution to Gabby Gifford’s PAC to end gun violence.
Then I noticed that amidst my anxiety and anger there was a river of gratitude, flowing gently. And I learned something new.
The gratitude is not simply, or even mainly, about the fact that we, and those we love, are safe… though that is certainly true.
Instead, the gratitude leaves me more free to care. More free to act. More free to reach out in the world even when the Inner Critic is in full battle cry.
That feels like a good thing. That and a mug of bone broth. And prayers for you and yours.
Oh, and check here for a free gift from Shiloh Sophia… a painting class called Colorful Scars which is all about the healing power of self expression. (No experience needed. Really!)