Usually when I clear things out, I feel great. Suddenly there is space instead of clutter, order instead of chaos, light out of darkness and all that wonderful addictive rush of potential. It’s not working as well in my interior space.
Over the last while, I’ve realized that things that used to be important to me aren’t anymore. I ran out of places to hide from the ideas that were kicking around in my brain, questioning my premises, and worse, the emotional convictions that are the real deal-breakers in my life (my brain is the justification agent for the decision-making heart).
No, I am not moving to Upper Volta to live entirely on insects who die a natural death after a long and fulfilling bug life. I’m not getting divorced, suffering from a terminal illness, or eschewing clothing as a tool of the patriarchy. Don’t panic or presume I need a 5150 weekend.
All I have done is let some people know I’m not going to be involved in some things I was involved in before. I’m just making the outer space conform more honestly to my interior landscape.
And I’m scared. There is suddenly too much space. I feel like I’ve given away my best teddy bear in the mistaken belief that I am grown up enough to do without. Except I am. Teddy doesn’t really keep monsters away. And while there are plenty of bad things out there, the monsters aren’t real. I need to look to see what is really under the bed. Besides a bunch of Brent’s stuff and dust bunnies.
Change is hard.