I’ve spent most my life thinking it necessary to fix myself.
To lose ten pounds, to cease checking email so frequently, to behave according to some inner ideal.
How amazing to discover that fixing myself wasn’t the answer I sought.
Spiritual teachers hinted that fixing didn’t work.
Yet I tried again and again and again and again and again to fix.
Then I would try not to fix before attempting fixing again.
Lately, when Presence casts its cloak over so many risings, it becomes crystal clear that what works is awareness itself. Awareness is the divine fixing.
When the desire arises to fix: there is it! In the desire itself. Look at the wellspring in the center of desire. There it is!
When the craving arises to stare mindlessly at the computer: there it is! In the craving itself.
When the guilt or shame appears: oh my goodness, what I was searching for exists in the awareness of the guilt and shame.
How utterly novel. What I was seeking arises in every sensation, every nook, every cranny, every feeling, every thought, every bit of humanity.
No humanity needs to be discarded, fixed. No perfect person needs to be shaped with clay and wild roses.
What feels the answer? Simple kind presence with whatever appears.
Again and again and again.
How often I’ve turned away from pain to compulsively munch cookies, to reply in anger, to sip a glass of wine. How often I’ve raced breathlessly away from the next sorrow without truly feeling it, truly allowing it.
More and more often the Garden of Eden reappears in that which was ruthlessly shoved away. More and more often I feel the whole of life in its dance between yes and no.
Every hour, a hundred times strong, arisings appear out of the mystery. Nothing need be fixed. Nothing need be tossed. I more often have the strength to feel it all, to be it all, to allow it.
(And yet I may still continue to fix. And that, too, is another arising to meet with kindness, with allowing.)
The many facets within have been crying over and over again: See me. Feel me. Touch me. Stay with me. Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave in that next restless pursuit toward fixing. Stay even closer in this sensation, this thought, this feeling.
From that, Life “fixes” itself. Or it doesn’t. It chooses, as it has always chosen. I have never been happier, as Life shares and takes away, rises and falls, sings and falls silent. As I make the next divine mistake, the next forgetting, the next imperfect gesture.