Thought Cookie: Edition 26, Vol. 3
I have a good friend who reminds me that taking small steps every day is a wonderful way to make progress.
When she reminds me of this, she is also reminding herself.
I love that about our friendship. What we share with one another, we are also sharing with ourselves. We coach and mentor each other and our own hearts at the same time.
I have been blessed with the gift of diligence. My name literally means, “Industrious one.” I am very industrious, loyal and hardworking.
I used to tell myself a story it was this persistence that made me successful. Not my intelligence, because there were people far more intelligent than I. Not my personality, as there were people far more gregarious than I. Not my talent, because I didn’t have the kind of stratospheric talent that made people successful. Not my business savvy, because what in the universe did I know about business?
I’m sad to say I held this limiting belief probably until my late 30s or early 40s.
Then, one day, and in some context, I allowed myself to accept that I was intelligent. I can’t remember the context, I can only remember the feeling of self-awareness and acceptance that came over me.
“I am really intelligent,” I said to myself. And I believed me.
Without comparing.
I still have my core industriousness.
Often, it shows up as driving bursts of focus and attention and creativity that just won’t quit until the thing is achieved. It makes me believe it is possible to address all the concerns, to send all the projects, to bring everything to a neat conclusion.
This drive has served me very well in a variety of contexts throughout my life.
And it has also served me unwell.
It has made me impatient and frustrated and it has reinforced my perfectionist tendencies, which are cruelties to ourselves, really.
Perfection is a self-harming allusion.
The idea “small steps, every day” challenges me to s l o w down, breathe, adopt an imperfect pace, and accept that I will not (today nor ever) complete it all.
I will leave this life done but unfinished, like all of my deceased loved ones have.
The Muchness (as I’ve written about before) makes the idea of “small steps, every day” seem ridiculous.
The Muchness pushes us to respond to all the inputs with equal outputs.
The Muchness laughs its sour breath in our face when we contemplate slowing down.
Lately, I’ve had to return again and again to “small steps, every day.”
This approach is sort of like an itchy, but super cute, sweater, I want to wear, but fight myself about.
I think constantly about donating it to Goodwill.
But a little at a time, I’m finding a bit more comfort in the approach.
To be clear, when I say “small” it can mean very small.
Small step examples:
I opened a file and looked through the contents.
I spent 10 minutes making some notes about an idea or a feeling.
I sat outside for lunch instead of watching Netflix.
I made a list at the end of the day of five things I was grateful for.
I rested all day instead of forcing myself into an activity where I could make other people happy.
I took out the trash before it started smelling and I let myself stew in the martyrdom and madness that no one else in the house had yet stepped up to take out the trash.
I wrote an email to my senator about gun violence.
Like that.
One small step I took recently was to take off my Fitbit for a couple of days.
I wear it basically all the time, everyday.
I don’t use it to communicate or check texts, but mainly for the time and timer, and to track my exercise and steps.
I didn’t consciously stop wearing it, I just forgot, then forgot again, to put it on after a shower.
After a couple of days, I realized I felt lighter, not just because the watch was missing.
But because that way of evaluating myself constantly was gone. That way of judging myself by glancing down was gone.
I wonder how often we take these inputs The Muchness produces and place them on our bodies.
Literally.
Mentally.
Emotionally.
And how often do we place them on our souls or our hearts?
How often do we do this without even realizing what it feels like not to?
I wonder how these behaviors slow us down, or speed us up, when maybe, left to our own devices, we don’t need to be paced from the outside in.
Some days I feel like I’m hitting my pace of self-grace.
Other days, I am frustrated and antsy.
I don’t have the answers, ever. Just ideas. And hope.
And this precious, precious moment.
Hi you! It’s Me, Emily. Did you feel this one?
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