On Monday night I was sitting at a hotel bar, sipping hot water and reading a book while waiting for my cauliflower wings to arrive. A man appears to my left and asks, "Is this seat taken?" and I give the leather a little pat of invitation. Just to sit, that is, as I return my attention fully to the text at hand. I can sense his restless energy even before he starts bantering with the gracious and overworked bar staff. But that's none of my business and my book is getting really good.
This memoir came to me as I was showing my first visitors around Boston. I took them to Thinking Cup for coffee before seeking refuge from the wind in Brattle Book Shop: a bookstore (est. 1825) that's housed some wild synchronicities for me in my short 9 months here. My eyes glanced a title in the occult section and my ear rang so loud that I shouted, "I hear you! I'll get it!" It's a tarot-inspired memoir in which the character reflects on the cards that came up in her first reading; she retells the memories evoked for her by each card according to its meaning and placement within the spread. It's had me laughing, crying, and beaming with pride: her experiences reflect so much of my own growth. But every once in a while, I have a flash of former-evangelical panic that I'm overestimating myself, pacing in horror at the thought that God sent me this book to tell me I'm not as far along as I should be.
No wonder I left the church.
I'm still learning that every case of doubt is an opportunity to return to self trust. Kind of like meditation, where the goal isn't to have a totally quiet mind; it's to breathe-- and when the mind inevitably wanders, we gently redirect it back to the breath. Wandering is not a failure: it's the whole point. If we don't wander, we can't learn how to redirect. We have to experience doubt to remember that we have a choice in where our trust goes.
It's in the return journey from doubt back to self-belief that we build the grip strength to hold onto that trust as we chart new courses. In fact, it's the *only* way we can embark on new journeys without losing pieces of our mind, body, heart, and purpose along the way.
But back to the bar.
My food comes, the book goes down, and here come the soft bids of connection from next door. I can feel him glancing for chances to start a chat: to my food, to my book, to my face, and back again.
A previous version of me would have felt beholden to the palpability of his needs: "I'm sensing this for a reason. I'm sitting right here for a reason. What does he need from me?" And herein lies the sneaky speech of how I twisted my love of chance and love of people into a weapon that chipped away at my energetic self. I used to carry the belief that to honor myself, I had to wield the powers of my perception, putting them to use wherever the universe had placed me that day. Meeting needs and taking names. Constructing my own prison of productivity by donning the mantle of "fixer" where any presumed lack presented itself to me. I had left the walls of the church, but my heart was still crying out, "Here am I, Lord. Send me." Give me purpose or give me death. I'd over-give, then turn the memory of the interaction over and over again in my mind looking for the point in what I'd just done. ("I know there's a lesson here! What could it be?") Even through my own eyes, my energy was a point of extraction for a greater good that wasn't mine to see.
This is where nuance is important because there will always be energies at work that cannot be witnessed by our conscious minds. The question becomes, who are you in relation to that energy? Its subordinate? Its servant? Do you deny its existence entirely and claim sole proprietorship of the control panel? My church created a dual reality where doing "what's right" required some people to learn to put themselves last and others to put themselves first. We should know by now that the simplicity promised by binary thinking blinds us to paradoxical truths we are unable to hold in a hierarchy.
It's only this year that I've come to realize that I can feel the flow of energy and it is my sovereign responsibility to interact with it in a way that honors my soul. Yes, I get to choose how I interact with it, but deeper than that, I have a duty to learn how to engage in a way that protects myself and the agency of others. Moving into connection from pity, fear, or scarcity without a clear understanding of my role and purpose in each context creates a vacuum in my energetic field. Unbridled empathy combined with an unchecked crucifixion complex used to push me into icy waters headfirst without checking in with my capacity nor my desire. And then I was left outsourcing my satisfaction to others, looking for love in all the wrong places. This whole time, every season of debilitating burnout was a messenger for my (lack of) boundaries.
Eventually, the man beside me asks directly what brings me to Jacksonville. "I'm a flight attendant," I say, and he follows with boy, that's a hard job and he could never do it, but he's sure that I just inherently possess the necessary qualities to be able to do it well. He had just finished a similar conversation with the bartender about her "innately" skilled memory and how much more suited women are to remembering details than men. She tried to tell him that attention and intention are in the driver's seat here because she doesn't exhibit the same aptitude when tips are not in play. He brushes her off and asks me why I like my job.
"I am confronted with opportunities to get to know myself more regularly than when I lived a stationary life.”
"What does that mean?" he asks.
"I think we tend to see ourselves through the lens of the role we play in the places we most frequently find ourselves. Being around the same people can blur the lines between who you are and the work you do. For me it definitely blurred who I am with what I’m good at. By finding myself in a different place with different people on most days, I get to meet new parts of me, or let the more hidden parts out to play depending on who I meet. I'm not as tempted to measure myself against someone else's expectations when everyone's a stranger."
"So it's freeing to just be around people who don't know you, I get it. But in your job, having to manage so many different situations... do you consider yourself to be an agreeable or disagreeable person?"
"...Could you clarify how you define those?"
"Do you watch Judge Judy?"
"...um, no. I'm going to need a little more from you."
"So, agreeable means that you want to promote peace and comfort and make sure that everyone is getting along, and generally avoid conflict. Disagreeable people play Devil's Advocate and enjoy the banter of the back and forth regardless of the topic or how they actually feel about it. Which one are you?"
"They both sound exhausting. I'd rather use my energy to tune into how I feel and share it without worrying how it'll be received."
His face contorts like I'm skirting his question. "Okay, so obviously you're a philosophical type. I just think there are clear strengths and weaknesses that are different for every person that make us suited for different experiences, roles, what have you. Like learning styles. Auditory, visual, yada yada. It's gotta be presented in your way of understanding to really click, you know? Or do you believe that people are all born intellectual?"
"I believe that curiosity is a human trait across the board. It’s just the extent to which we feel safe exploring that curiosity determines whether we nurture or stifle the drive."
He takes a moment to ponder. "What do you mean by that?"
"All kids make sense of the world through observing until they're able to ask questions, right?"
"Sure."
"Well, if you grow up in a house where asking 'why?' is seen as disrespectful or annoying, kids usually face punishment, ridicule, and isolation for being curious. Most learn to quietly make their own meaning as quickly as they can, asking as few questions as possible. It doesn't mean they'll be less "intellectual" as you say, but they generally place a higher priority on being 'right' than expanding their worldview."
"So you think everything that happens in childhood determines what kind of person you are."
At this point, we are dancing around the fact that this man is going to boil down whatever I say into the either/or, binary framework. He sounds like a middle school rubric on argumentative writing: no riding the fence. And he's red-faced tipsy. My gut tells me to wrap it up. I breathe deep before responding.
"I believe... that whatever we believe ultimately becomes true for us."
His lips slowly mouth my words back to himself as he processes. "Can you give me an example?"
"In my previous life as a teacher-"
"-of what age group?" he interrupts.
"Tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grades."
"Oh, shit."
"...I heard kids say all kinds of things about themselves that I would never use to describe them. Let's take 'I'm bad at math,' as an example. It really doesn't matter if there's any truth at the start; but they repeat these stories to themselves, and come to believe them. All I see is that they make damn sure to avoid any possible avenue where math could be involved…"
"-Because if they believe they can't do it, they shouldn't even try." He finishes my sentence with a conceding nod of the head. "I think I agree with everything you're saying."
I point to my book. "I'm a person of stories. And because of that, I've been a lot of different people."
He's just about to start another line of discussion when I ask the bartender for the check. He turns away quickly, facing the bar, flustered, but trying to act casual. I say goodnight and receive a small wave of his hand acknowledging my exit.
I slip out to the courtyard to sit under the almost-full moon. Sliding into an Adirondack chair and propping my feet up on the flower bed, I feel a surge of pride— followed immediately by a familiar pang of doubt. Did I hurt his feelings? Did I betray myself by conversing at all? Did I enter the conversation to make him feel bad about himself?
I start to vocalize the thoughts as they swirl. Listening to them float back to me through the air, a hush comes over me. What is your role here? In this context, what is your purpose?* Oh yeah, I'm just a regular person sitting and eating dinner. I'm not his teacher, not his therapist, not his friend. I owe nothing beyond the decency and grace afforded to all humankind. I engaged to the level I felt comfortable and I gave my absence when my capacity expired. How would you respond if it were your best friend teetering on the edge of this mental spiral? GIRL: if you believe everything you just said to that man, which I know you do, then you have the power to stop replaying every event, nitpicking your behavior, and hunting for should-and-shouldn't-haves to torture yourself. You didn't center his feelings while you talked to him, so why the fuck would you choose to center them now when you're all by yourself?
Well... shit... I never thought of it that way. I can choose to have my own back instead.
[Meg! I am so proud of you for protecting our energy. I stop searching for ways to punish us. I choose to draw meaning from how we feel on the inside and I relinquish the compulsion to analyze us from as many external angles as possible. I am proud to express what we’ve learned authentically without attempting to convince, coax, or condescend. No outcome can ever change how I feel about you. Your value is so intrinsically rooted that no external circumstance can reach it. I’m sorry I forget sometimes. Thank you for letting me know when you were ready to go. Let's take more actions that feed these feelings. Everything else can go. Breathe deep. I love you.]
Until Next Time,
Meg
*This is a direct application of a tool I learned from The Midnight Scholar Society here on Substack.
**Background image collected from the public domain, depicting a rendering of a strange “celestial event” on February 27th, 1561 in the Mansfeld region of Germany.
https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/celestial-phenomena-16th-century-germany/
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