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I’m sitting in the dark, listening to the BBC streaming from my housemate’s bedroom (music to sleep by, for certain). I’m restless, can’t sleep, don’t want to write letters for fear I’ll sound confused or mopey or lame or something worse: needy. I’m aching for company (more human than my cat), longing for the heat of another body next to mine. It’s cool here tonight. I even closed the window some, first time in months (I like to sleep with the windows open until the first blizzard or December, whichever comes sooner).

I’ve been dealing with some health confusions lately that have occupied much of my non-working time. Luckily I have a visit with the Dr. on the 2nd and am hoping to be on the road to some answers. For now I am writing down EVERYTHING I eat and paying concentrated attention to the minutiae of my tummy rumblings. I am wary of being swayed into easy diagnoses and am simply being present to my body and it’s needs, as it has been falling short of my hopes lately.

Additionally, my yoga practice has sucked lately. I mean, really fallen into non-existence. When I first started practicing (at 14), I was so diligent about getting to the mat every day. As I have gotten older, that has slowed from a fervor to an ocean tide, complete with ebbs and flows. These days, though, it seems like somebody pulled up the drain stop and all my yoga energy went out with the bath water! I know that much of it is my inability to practice with a regular class. In college I went to a $5 yoga class once a week (it was the least expensive class, and first-come-first-practice). Locally, the least expensive drop-in rate is $12, well beyond my means right now. And with a somewhat irregular work schedule, it’s difficult to find consistency in a class practice.

So again, I sound whiny. Mostly I’m making excuses. I’m saying:
* I don’t do yoga more often because I can’t afford a class/have an irregular schedule/can’t find a teacher I like/don’t have the energy after working/stay up too late and miss morning classes/etc.

* I don’t write blog posts because I am working too much/feel ill too often/stress about yoga or work instead/would rather be curled up next to someone I love (who doesn’t exist here yet).

All this is a theme in my life lately. I’m making excuses to keep from being in MY life. Really. I’m so wrapped up in keeping myself out of my life/keeping myself from reaching my fullest potential that it never happens. I never do the things I most love (yoga, writing, even cooking lately).

I’m afraid of my full potential.

There. I said it.

To be more concrete:

The potential I keep locked inside is so great it scares me. I say this not to “toot my horn,” but because I KNOW what I have locked away, I have tasted the vast power surging in these veins, I’ve let just glimpses of my abilities peek out and been begged by others to let them shine. I never do. I start to let go, start to bust through walls and break the glass keeping me hidden, and then all that shattering and destruction scares me more than the potential does so I build the walls right back up again.

Have you ever felt this? Does being afraid of one’s potential even make sense?

The Universe is continually handing me opportunities to shine. I accept them with tact and grace and then don’t mention them again, hoping the gift-giver might forget or just also choose never to mention it. I have dreamed with the best of them, had a fire handed to me, and been offered “to just talk” with an incredible, intuitive being. I’ve had real change-makers ask to link to my blog, and learned how to change the world through writing. And I quietly let the awesomeness of these experiences slip into the ether, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the Universe will share the gift with someone more worthy.

Ahhhh. There it is.

Yeah, there’s that dirty little secret I’ve been hiding. Worthy. Someone more worthy than I.

This is what happens when I blog at night and tell myself I will never press publish. The truth comes peeking through the cracks in my facade. I want so desperately, so deeply, to cry out in shame, to scream “I WANT to be worthy, I just DON’T KNOW HOW.” It’s not in my nurture to be worthy. It’s not in my background, nor in my current. I’m not feeling that worthy vibe, in large part because I’m not believing that I am worthy. Instead, I am lying to myself that I will never press publish to trick myself into soul-ripping honesty. That someday I might read these words and look back on the me of this moment with all the love in the world, remembering this feeling as being past, not present. That someone else out there knows this feeling and finds comfort in reading that they are not alone.

Here’s the funny thing:

I feel I’m not worthy, but I also feel ashamed that I feel I’m not worthy, so I don’t talk about worth with anyone else because I’m embarassed that I’m thinking I’m not worthy, which tells my heart I’m not worthy of being honest with others about what’s REALLY going on for me and why I’m withdrawn and distant and instead I can write about it semi-anonymously and pretend that no one I actually know will read this and then somehow that might make it seem like I’m way less lame than I feel because I’m ashamed that I feel I’m not worthy.

REALLY? Could my brain be any more convoluted and screwed up?

So I’m making a moment here. I’m making a moment of gentleness, of tenderness, of safety. I’m making a moment where I don’t have to promise or commit to changing these feelings. I’m making a moment of softness, of reading a book for pleasure and writing a letter because I want to do so. I’m making a moment between the commitments to change, the vows to improve, the oaths of believing in myself. I’m making a moment for my tiny, fist-crushed heart to fill with vital blood again.

I’m making this moment for me, and I’m holding the space so that you can make a moment for you.

Whatever it is, whatever your secret, make a moment to just exhale that. No expectations, no magical changes, just a deep exhale. Maybe even a sigh. Make a moment for yourself today.

And on the next inhale, feel free to go back to the hub-bub, the crazy, the secret. Pretend you never let it go out into the world. It will remain a secret as long as you do not tell a soul. Or, as long as you believe it’s a secret.

With my next inhale, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll decide then, and let you know.

**I want to make this space open. If you would like to be witnessed, to have your secret heard, feel safe to leave an anonymous comment on this post. I will not tell a soul. Your secrets are welcome to lie around with mine until they become gluttons and drunkards. Then, someday, we’ll 86 them and permanently banish them from our pub.**