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It is November 1st. This is the first time I have committed to two days at the Harbor Grand room 310 since I began coming here in April to write my book. The view has continued to change with the seasons. I can see even more of the lake as most of the trees have lost their leaves. The lake and the sky have a grayish tone to them, and the light somehow makes the outline of everything in the harbor more distinct, detailed. The sounds of the gulls’ calls and geese’ squawks cut through the crisp air with more clarity than in past months. Everything seems more heightened as the prospect of winter and austerity faces us. My three dear weeping willows have held fast to their leaves and the only discernable change I can see in them so far is a slight thinning and greater variation of green intermingled with gold. There is a speckled scattering of delicate shriveled yellow leaves on the ground at their roots. It looks like these three grand ladies are having a bad hair day as their trestle-like branches are droopy and lack luster. They are gearing themselves up for letting go, I can tell. They are still clinging vehemently to the enjoyment of tossing their drab dreadlocks in the wind. I pause and acknowledge how I know this in myself. I know how the notion of truly letting go, making way for a kind of death-time and loss-time makes me grabby, holding on tighter for as long as I can before the inevitable exhale comes, before the necessary release empties to make way for the new…for the unknown and mysterious face of change. I feel how the tightening and holding on contracts through my body in anticipation of…what? And Fear is the companion of this tightening. And Doubt, her sister.
The idea of coming here for two days was an experiment to see if I could get more writing done in 48 hours than I have been in 24 hours. I have noticed that when I have to get packed up to leave at the end of each writing tryst I am in a zone and I really don’t want to break my trance or disconnect from the channel that I am reveling in, that I’m on a roll so to speak, and don’t want to interrupt that which I am clinging to. Perhaps the inspiration will never come again. So it occurred to me last month that I could book two days and see how it goes.
In the interim I doubted whether this was a good idea, and I watched my expectations increase as well as the stress that accompanies those expectations. What if I don’t have any more in me after 24 ½ hours? I will have paid for another day and night and for what?
As my husband helped me load the car, I realized I had forgotten something, my phone charger. He tried to encourage me to forget about it, that I didn’t need to take it with me, that I shouldn’t be on the phone much anyway while I was writing. I have a tendency to give in to his suggestions and doubt my intuition, only to deeply and angrily regret it later. This time, I said, thanks but I think I’ll trust my gut here. In other situations I can easily and frequently doubt myself. I even doubt my inner Doubter. Or criticize and judge my inner Critic. Or boss around and overrule my inner Boss. Or belittle my Unworthy One. What a lot of energy all this takes and what does it accomplish? This time I made a choice to trust without questioning. Nice. I just went back into the house and retrieved the charger with a knowing- I will need this. It proved to be right as someone called who truly needed me to answer the phone and to talk just as I needed to be present for her and myself in that conversation, which of course was about fear and doubt. I was keenly aware that Doubt was definitely hanging around.
So hello there. Welcome, Doubt.
It is my sense that the Doubter, or the Critic arrive with a mission of protection. Of course there must be fearful thoughts or the need to protect wouldn’t be there. And of course fear isn’t any more or less real than any other thought. But it feels real. Oh it feels very real. These thoughts have arrived to be seen, sometimes out of habit, sometimes out of wisdom. How do you know the difference? So I am interested in how we can observe the arrival of the Doubter, or Critic, or Boss or whoever with inquiry and presence, allowing it to be seen, acknowledged, and held. It reminds me of a child with a hurt, who may be screaming melodramatically, but seems to be put at ease, for the moment, by climbing in your lap, listened to, and not fixed, as this particular hurt is not really fixable.
So the Watcher and I lie down on the fluffy king-size bed in room 310 at the Harbor Grand and cuddle with Doubt. She wants to sleep, she doesn’t want to write. She is in resistance and she will absolutely not sit at the keyboard. She doesn’t want to read a book either. She wants to sleep or watch tv. Period.
What have you come to tell me? I whisper. Doubt has an alias name- the Procrastinator, and she is stubborn. I want to hear you, I whisper again, coaxing her. What do you need from me to allow us to write? She tosses and turns a bit. She says nothing at first. I said she was stubborn. I fall asleep with her for two hours. It is a heavy, dead to the world sleep. I allow it and watch it. A few times my eyes glimpse the computer, which waits patiently. Doubt turns over in the bed and away from the monitor which glows with light and possibilities. I think the “possibilities” part gets to her. I think that when the Watcher is really present, that out of the watching, other possibilities and choices always seem to emerge, spontaneously, as a surprise.
She climbs out of bed and teases me as she goes to the bathroom, then has something to eat. She climbs back into bed and under the covers. I am still patient. I know I cannot force her because Doubt is extremely passive aggressive and will win. I ask Myself- what if I don’t write a word in these two days? What if nothing comes, and Doubt holds me captive? Could I love myself enough for that to be okay too, all the while “not-doing” with awareness? Doubt comes awake having overheard this. I can tell she is ready to speak. Perhaps she trusts that I have proven I am really ready to listen. Write for us alone, she sighs, relieved. Write because we must, because the expression itself is what matters. Then I will feel safe. Then I will not be afraid. What is there to doubt except whether I am speaking from my truth, and I am a good reader of that. I will be here to remind you.
I see we are a good team, Doubt, the Watcher, and me. She comes to remind me about what is important, if I listen deeply enough. If I had merely judged her thoughts as negative thoughts, thoughts that attract other “bad” thoughts which hold me back from manifesting the life I wish I could live, and had turned quickly toward the “good” thoughts, the “Ahhh, I can do it!!!” thoughts, I would have pushed through, and in doing so, lost my way. Instead, I did not find her as my enemy, my blocker, but rather as having wisdom behind her fear. She knows how to create safety when she is engaged in problem solving rather than just resistance.
I hear you, I say. I might lose my way again. It is easy to do so in our world. So come back to remind me and I will take the time to listen. On this you can trust me.
And so Doubt let me write about her. And this is her chapter.
This is the intimacy of the self-mastery process, the tender relationship with self. Can we allow all aspects of the process, including fear and doubt, envy, and rejection to be held with love and acceptance? Can the surrender and letting go come of its own accord, in its own time, through a righteous and compassionate relationship with the complex self? Can we trust that the exhale will come when it must and be certain that the inhale will follow, without forcing the breath to be as we will it to be? Can I trust that this book will write itself, will breathe itself into the keyboard in its own way, in its own time?
I glance out the window at the pile of leaves on the ground below the willows. It appears like there are many more of them there now, having let go of their clinging, fallen from the branches when I was not looking. |
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