05 | December | 2014 | Open Space Practice, (AKA: A Thousand Shades of Gray)

Project Reverb prompt: “Letting go: For next year, I’m letting go of…”

I try to respond to the Reverb prompts myself before reading what anyone else said because I want my response to be fresh, unique, original, authentic, even if it ends up magically similar to someone else’s answer. I messed up this time. Someone posted a comment to today’s prompt on the Project Reverb website and said they were letting go of “that which no longer serves me.” That phrase is a mantra of sorts for me, the perfect way to describe why I’ve been shedding old habits, thought patterns, and ways of being. Now that I’ve heard it, I can’t answer this any other way.

For next year, I’m letting go of that which no longer serves me. Everything that is too small, too tight, all that is restricting me, pinching me and making me uncomfortable. I’m letting go of what I’m not using. I’m letting go of what I’m afraid to give up, get rid of, surrender. I’m letting go of poverty mentality. I’m letting go of pushing, shoving, forcing, smashing myself to bits. I’m letting go of thinking I can do everything, do it fast and without the necessary rest and nourishment. I’m letting go of needing to be liked, of thinking it’s an issue of survival. I’m letting go of fitting in. I’m letting go of pretending. I’m letting go of “supposed to” and “have to.” I’m letting go of being afraid of suffering, which is really a fear of dying, of impermanence — (well, that one might take some work, a little more time).

Reverb14 prompt: “What is the sound of your own voice?”

Sometimes soft, sometimes fierce. Sometimes it’s too loud and people tell me to keep it down, to be quiet, to shut up. Sometimes it’s not even words. It comes from so deep inside of me that when I hear it echoed back to me from a recording, I don’t recognize it. From far away it can sound a little like a flock of birds or a swarm of bees or a single wolf howling. Sometimes I speak in a language I made up that no one else understands. Sometimes my voice sounds like a whistle that only dogs can hear. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if I’m singing or talking or crying. When it says “I’m sorry” it sounds like sticks breaking. When it says “I love you” it sounds like ocean waves. The sound of my breath, my heartbeat is the same.

1. Walking the dogs. They get me up, get me out. As Ringo gets older, more grown up and less crazy, it gets easier to walk both dogs, which makes it more enjoyable for the human. In the morning, we go early enough that I get to see the sun come up. They don’t care, but it amazes me every time.

2. Christmas shopping. Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t usually enjoy shopping, and sometimes I even hate it. However, it does make me happy to be able to buy gifts for people I love, to find the exact right thing. I also take part in the Pine Ridge Holiday Project every year, and buying for people who need so much, have so little makes every crappy day I ever have at work totally worth it. The best part of shopping this year is that I’m almost done.

3. The relatively good health of my dogs. Ringo had a case of puppy warts but it never got that bad and is almost cleared up. Sam had another bought of what we call “scritchiness” but is feeling better now after some treatment. We are taking him to the Dermatology department at the CSU Vet hospital to see if we can either determine the underlying cause and manage it better, or discover a more effective way to treat him. Watching Sam and Ringo play in the backyard still makes me stupidly happy since when Ringo first came home, we didn’t know if Sam would get healthy enough to do so, or if he’d even still be around.

4. Good friends. Seriously, so funny and smart and kind. They support me when I’m struggling, cheer me up when I’m sad (or cry with me, if that’s called for), give the best advice, celebrate my successes, make me laugh, and keep me company while I’m figuring it all out. Sometimes I even get to do the same for them.

5. New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” playing while I was on a writing date with an angel. I could hardly pay attention to what I was writing because the song was like a tiny musical time machine. “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray. I’m waiting for that final moment You say the words that I can’t say.”