Too much of my life at home involves work and television. It is hard to switch off and just be, here in India. It will no doubt get easier, but I am conscious it is difficult for me to enjoy not having to do anything and just focus on myself.
Like I said, first world problem.
Interesting things to note about Tina from yesterday include:
* I push myself to push beyond my shyness more readily now than I used to. Maybe I’m not so shy anymore. Maybe I’m just better at pushing beyond my natural comfort zone. Maybe I’ve just realized that nothing has killed me yet. This is why I like aging.
* I was reluctant to introduce myself as a writer and as a small business owner. The writing in particular impacted me. Why have I not embraced my writerly identity? Especially when it is something I have always been/done/loved. One of the girls and I discussed this. She is an artist, a sculptor, and she owned it. I may have been (read, definitely was) intimidated by her ownership of her creativity.
* I am definitely no good at judgements of others. I think this is because I live in a moment of fear/panic/terror when I meet people. We are, most of us, intimidated by the new. I definitely deem myself unworthy and unlovable. This is the narrative that leads and guides me in new situations.
It is a naughty narrative because it is so untrue. It is the narrative that I think I was called here to challenge and rewrite.
One of the girls yesterday said that when she saw me in the airport her desire was to run after me, but she didn’t. We sat at dinner last night. Just connected. I didn’t think we would. That’s because the narrative told me I wasn’t good enough.
Stupid narrative. I am good enough. I am worthy. I am lovable. I am strong. I am compassionate. I am loving. I am me.
And, that is enough.
During the first meditation yesterday I was bombarded with images. Some were reminiscent of the Indian gods and I think a young Buddha appeared to me; I can still see his face. And then the words, self-loathing.
If I am to be honest, this would be the title of my narrative. I would not ever have thought I loathed myself but there is definitely an unresolved childhood theme at play there. The lack of worthiness and lovability stems from it.
The logical adult within me knows that it is irrational and entirely untrue. The wounded child does not. Time to heal her.