I’m sick and feel unable to record the audio for this post. Also, I’m pretty sure no one wants to hear me sniffling anyway. In terms of why I’m resharing this post from August 2021, I honestly don’t know, but it’s what kept ringing through my head. Maybe someone out there really needs to hear it. Enjoy.
I keep thinking about an essay I read in the book All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum. He writes about how he lived at the dead end of a dead-end street, two blocks long, at the bottom of a hill in north Seattle. At the top of the hill, two big yellow and black signs declared: STREET ENDS. And at the end of the street where Fulghum resided, another big sign with stripes and reflectors stated the obvious: DEAD END.
You could see that “DEAD END” sign a long way off – in other words, the dead end didn’t sneak up on you. However, what’s so remarkable is people drove down the street anyway and seemed to be baffled when the street did, in fact, end.
These signs aren’t just for decoration. Photo by fr0ggy5 on Unsplash
Fulghum writes:
“Not just part way, mind you. Not just to where the reality of the situation cleared up. No, sir. They drove all the way down, right up to the sign, the big black one with stripes, the one that said DEAD END.
“And they read that sign two or three times. As if they were foreigners and had to translate the English. They looked on either side of the sign to see if there was a way around it. Sometimes they sat there for two or three minutes adjusting their minds …. There was no pattern. All kinds of vehicles, all kinds of people, broad daylight and pitch dark. Even a police car a couple of times. And once a fire truck.
“Innate skepticism or innate stupidity? I confess I do not know. A psychiatrist friend tells me it’s a sample of an unconscious need to deny – that everyone wants the road or The Way to continue on instead of ending. So you drive as far as you can, even when you can clearly read the sign. You want to think you are exempt, that it doesn’t apply to you. But it does.”
His last two lines especially strike me. We want to think we are exempt, that whatever we’re confronting – a dead-end street, a deadly virus, whatever – doesn’t apply to us. But it does. I’d wager the majority of us want to feel special. We want to be right, to know the truth, and even when there’s evidence demonstrating we’re wrong, we can’t accept it. Why is that? I think one reason is U.S. culture doesn’t have many examples of people saying, “I don’t know.”
Instead of saying, “I don’t know,” we make something up, we pretend to know. We try to save face versus practicing humility and admitting, “I don’t know,” or even, “Maybe I’m wrong.” Who says maybe I’m wrong these days?!? I can’t remember the last time I heard in a public space someone open to the possibility they don’t know everything. It’s as if due to the internet and having so much knowledge at our fingertips, we’re loath to say, “I don’t know” or “I could be wrong.”
Also likely wrapped up in “I don’t know” is fear. My spiritual teacher says, “Humans do not fear to tread a known path, but they always hesitate and fear to travel unknown paths.” Sometimes those unknown paths are intellectual ones. It’s far easier to cling to a thought or belief you learned early on and is corroborated by friends and family than to change your mind and believe something new. But that’s the beautiful thing about the mind – it can be changed.
There’s nothing shameful or humiliating about saying, “I don’t know,” or “I was wrong.” No human is omniscient. We aren’t supposed to know everything, and that means we’d be better off acknowledging that’s true. We’d also be better off accepting reality when it’s staring us in the face – like when we’re confronted with a dead-end street.
I dream of a world where we understand that if there’s a road sign that says “DEAD END,” the street ends. A world we understand if we think we know something other people don’t, we’re likely deluding ourselves. A world where we’re OK with some uncertainty and we embrace the power of saying, “I don’t know” and “Maybe I’m wrong.” A world where we all learn from dead-end streets.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
One of my guiding principles is that the universe is always communicating with us, so when something unusual happens – like this week – I pay attention. The other day, something small and slender drooped from the top bar of my shower stall. Was it caulk? The glue unfurling? No. It was a millipede.
For context, I live on the second floor, and my bathroom is nowhere near anything natural like a tree. Also, I’ve lived here for nearly 11 years, and I’ve never seen a millipede in my home before. In other words, this isn’t a common occurrence. This millipede essentially appeared out of thin air, and I’m choosing to believe it was to tell me something.
I googled the shamanic meaning of millipede and nothing resonated until I read a post from the website Symbols and Synchronicity, where the author wrote that millipedes are messengers. “Not messengers in the way of grand declarations, but gentle ones—quiet teachers reminding us that transformation is not always loud,” she said. “Many traditions hold them close, seeing in their patient crawl the essence of protection, endurance, and hidden strength. . .The millipede, coiling slow and sure, brings lessons in groundedness and trust in the path beneath our feet.”
My millipede didn’t look like this, fyi. Photo by Markus Blüthner on Unsplash
I won’t quote the entire piece – even though it’s gorgeous and I recommend reading it – but here are a few more parts that jumped out at me: “[The millipede] teaches in silence. No bark, no roar, no teeth. But you follow her for a while and she’ll show you how to go on when everything says stop. She’ll teach you to live like the forest floor lives: slow, patient, making something rich out of all that has fallen apart.”
And one more quote: “So if she comes, stop. Get low. Lay your palm to the ground and say thank you. For the lesson. For the witness. For the reminder that the slow way is not the wrong way. That you can lose things, many things, and still go on. That your healing, like hers, may come not in leaps—but in inches. And that is holy, too.”
When I read the piece from Symbols and Synchronicity, tears started streaming down my cheeks, and even now I’m getting choked up, because this year has been like that. Losing things, grieving dreams, releasing old ways of being. It’s been a deep and slow healing process. And oftentimes I feel like I’m backsliding, that I’m not making any progress at all. But then I get a message from the millipede, who says, “You’re healing in inches.”
No one else may notice the healing; I might not be able to broadcast it like a story on the 6 o’clock news, but it’s happening. This subtle growth is fitting for the season we’re in, too, in the Northern hemisphere. Winter is about hibernation, taking things slow. I know that’s counter to the messaging we get around the holidays but that doesn’t make it any less true.
The millipede reminds us to go slow, to remember slow is not bad or wrong. Sometimes it’s the only way and it’s still beautiful and worthwhile. Sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps, and it’s still worth celebrating.
I dream of a world where we understand healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to look. A world where we recognize it’s often slow and deep. A world where we celebrate the progress we’ve made, even if no one else can see it. A world where we remember that sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
It’s funny, or perhaps timely, that as we approach the longest night of the year in the Northern hemisphere that I’m thinking of light, both literal and metaphorical. On the metaphorical level, I very much relate to the story of the Golden Buddha.
Several hundred years ago in Thailand, monks covered a giant golden Buddha statue with clay to protect it from an attack by the Burmese army. During the attack, the monks were killed, so no one knew that beneath the clay was actually a golden Buddha. It wasn’t until 1957 when some monks attempted to relocate the Buddha that this discovery was made. They noticed a large crack in the clay, through which streamed something gold. The monks used a hammer and chisel to chip away at the clay exterior until it was revealed that the entire statue was made of solid gold.
I feel like that clay Buddha. The past several months have been a process of chipping away at my exterior – all the limiting beliefs, all the maladaptive coping strategies, all the everything that’s kept me from being my true self. The whole thing has been deeply painful. As if to encourage me during this process, I pulled an oracle card the other day. Here’s an excerpt of what it said:
“Through the natural process of transformation, great leaps are indeed possible. The situations in your current life are particularly geared toward a more significant manifestation that is coming to you according to your life path and purpose. This is a stage of preparation and building a foundation that will hold you strong and centered as your creative journey unfolds and your life path becomes ever more brilliant and luminous. Be hopeful and trust in the light you sense within you, for this light that is within you is simply revealed more fully. An affirmation for you: ‘I surrender what is into the loving fire of transformation. The light within me illuminates the present and manifests the future in the highest creative expression of unconditional love.’”
*A* Golden Buddha but not *the* Golden Buddha. Photo by Ganesh Kumar B N on Unsplash
When I pulled that oracle card, I cried because it struck me that everything I’m going through isn’t just a growth opportunity – it’s all setting me up for a stronger, more centered self. It’s setting me up to be happier. And it’s forcing the real me to shine through. Because of the way I’m oriented, I also think about how becoming ever more luminous helps other people.
It’s currently Hanukkah, which, yes, celebrates a war battle, but it’s also a symbolic battle where we remember the flame of one lamp lights up countless others, both literally and metaphorically. When we spread our light, our goodness, we light up other people. And together, we create a row of lights such that darkness retreats.
There’s a lot of darkness in the world, but there’s also a lot of light, both literally and metaphorically. People are hanging lights in their homes to bring in more literal light, but they’re also doing kind things for one another to bring in more metaphorical light. They watch their friend’s kid, they volunteer, they show up to protect immigrants. People all over the world are letting their goodness shine through and becoming ever more luminous. In this holiday season, that’s my wish for you, too.
I dream of a world where we recognize sometimes we go through hard things because ultimately it will take us somewhere happier and healthier. A world where we understand beneath a clay exterior, there lives a golden Buddha within each of us. A world where we let our light shine and become ever more luminous.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I keep thinking about the movie Under the Tuscan Sun so I decided to recycle one of my posts about it. This one is from January 2012. Enjoy.
I have preconceived notions of what my life will look like and how I will get my needs met. What I’m finding out, though, is the universe takes care of me in ways I didn’t think it would. For instance, this week I’ve been sick. So sick I didn’t leave the house for three days and mainlined tea like it was my job. I had this idea that the only people who would take care of me when I’m sick are my mom and my boyfriend. Well, my mom lives in Seattle, and my boyfriend is nonexistent, so I resigned myself to being really pathetic on the couch. You know what happened, though? My good friend came over and made me dinner and tea.
My needs are getting met, just not how I thought they would. It reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Under the Tuscan Sun. At the beginning of the movie, Diane Lane’s character says she wants a family in her house, a wedding, and someone to cook for. At the end of the movie, she has all those things. Her best friend and her best friend’s baby moved in, she held a wedding for a neighbor, and the people to cook for were the contractors on her house. Her wishes came true, but in a different form than she anticipated.
I’m going to pretend this is all vegan! Photo by Brooke Lark on Unsplash
My view is limited. I can get tunnel vision with how I think things should go but my higher power sees everything. My higher power says, “I will give you everything you want and more, but it’s going to come out of left field.” I didn’t expect anyone I’m not dating would voluntarily make me dinner while being sick. But here was this friend doing exactly that.
I don’t need to get caught up in the “how” of things – I can instead let the universe work its magic. Doreen Virtue has a great quote where she said we want to hand life a script and quibble about what’s on page 42. I don’t want to quibble about page 42 anymore. I would rather say, “Hey God, here’s what I want, here are my needs and desires, I know they’ll be fulfilled, and I look forward to seeing how you make it happen.” Because in the end, it most likely will look different than I think it will.
I dream of a world where we’re open to all possibilities. A world where we understand our needs and desires get met in interesting and unique ways. A world where we don’t hand the universe a script because we realize it’s more like improv – there are certain parameters, but for the most part, stuff gets made up on the fly. I dream of a world where we rest easy knowing we’ll get exactly what we need as long as we’re open to whatever form that will take.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.