What Feels Like a Yes?
INNER CRITIC
On Tuesday, my inner critic was loud and cranky. Her sharp tone sliced through my tender heart, ranting about my lack of progress. In curt, no-nonsense terms, she deemed me lazy, pathetic, and unworthy. Through her lens, I saw myself —a failure.
Twenty-four hours later, I step inside the home of a friend, joining a small group of women who are gathering for a soul retreat. We warm our cold hands around steaming mugs of tea and share our stories. We listen to poetry, we write. I paint. We come up for air and to share. Then we decide to write one more time. . .
The proffered prompts are invitations, suggestions. Some feel daunting, like too much of a stretch for this day, for this woman; but one feels approachable, it beckons me, questioning: “What feels like a yes for you today?”
I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and put pen to paper.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
No.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
No. No. No
Yes! no
Yes?
NO!
Yes, please.
Warm soup and cozy blankets. Down comforters fluffed. Romantic movies and escape. Blanket fort buildings and secret worlds under the furniture. Safe, creative space without the should of society. Guilt-free creativity. Community. Rest. Inspiration filled days.
Where is she, my inspiration? I catch glimpses of her scurrying along the path, rounding the corner. My cold fingered body trudges steadily in my boot-covered feet, unwilling to spark the necessary speed to catch up with her—my inspiration. She flits on fairy wings, adorned in her gossamer summer attire—flowing dresses, flowers in her hair. And I am left behind, bundled. Armored against the cold, winter weather; scarf tightly around my neck, preserving my warmth and hampering my voice. The “wait” I shout at her comes out a half-hearted muffle. Chasing the external spark in this winter existence leaves me lonely. I feel helpless, alone. Hopeless. It’s not summer and I’m no spring chicken anymore. I can no longer simply sprint down the path to catch her.
I pause. Notice the dappled sunlight on a fallen tree, inviting me to take a seat, to pause this incessant, fruitless pursuit. Beside babbling brook I am reminded that there is always movement—even beneath a frozen surface. Looking up, I see spiders’ strands glistening endless possibilities out into the world. And I sit. I feel my butt on the log. I allow my shoulders to release. I imagine my scalp relaxing. I let go and I delve inward. There. There she is. Safely housed inside. Wisdom. Her grounded warmth, a welcome presence. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She evokes calm. She knows that this, too, shall pass. That inspiration will alight again. This wisdom of mine. She knows and I know. . .when I listen.
I invite you to cozy up with your own inner wisdom, snuggle with her on the couch or seek her out in your sacred spot in nature. Carve out a moment or two from the daily drive to produce and instead listen and explore. . .