Today, the tentative has reappeared; a mild case of “I’m not good enough” or “who do I think I am?” Mild—not debilitating, but I notice, nonetheless. The words aren’t pouring out freely, they’re dripping, instead–plunking as they land—a bit awkward. The task at hand is to love what is, and a sense of stilted is what is. I feel an internal sigh, a little huff of resistance. So I acknowledge, hold, love, and allow it to burn away. I can’t trip through this list lightly. Each step seems to require a steady view. It doesn’t require a lot of time, but I do need to be attentive.

Acknowledge. A sense of self has reappeared, and cares how it’s seen. In my patterning, that groove has been a deep one. So I look, very carefully. Can I find this one, this “I” that seems individuated?

A few minutes later—I found nothing there, no substantial “I,” only thoughts about it. I know better than to believe thoughts! They show up unasked, and leave just as abruptly. I can neither manufacture them nor control them. They have a life of their own. If need be, I’ll take the time to look for the root of thought again. Today, that doesn’t seem necessary.

Hold. Hold in the sense one might hold a tiny, day-old baby—with attention, and care. Allow the baby to rest safely in my arms. In the same way, allow this messy, imaginary sense of self to rest in a larger vessel of safety—don’t make it wrong, don’t deny it.

Love. That tender place that doesn’t judge, but simply loves what is in front of it—love in that way. All of it. Love what is.

Then the miraculous happens—the sense of the separate one, the less-than, dissolves. Poof! Gone. It might crop up again, but that is neither my business nor my concern.

© Skye Blaine, 2011