Life Lessons

My Old Sowbug Self

0-pillbugI recently finished reading a book titled Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself by Joe Dispenza.  I was highly impressed with it.  I’m sure it was partly the way he wrote it, but also, I noticed that something in me is ready to change.  I’ve been trying to change.  It’s not always an easy thing to do.  It’s so much easier to stay one’s old self.

My old self is a sowbug.  That’s the way I’ve always thought of it.  A sowbug is one of those little gray insects with a slinky-spring shell back and a million tiny legs.  You can see one crawling in your garden.  If you put something in front of a sowbug, it senses danger and curls up into a ball, resembling a gray b-b on the ground.

I’m like a sowbug.   Put a blade of grass in front of me and I curl up into a ball.

So what’s the blade of grass today?  Oh, I don’t know.  I suppose I think I’m unworthy if I’m not writing the most brilliant literature in the English language.  I should whip out the Great American Novel, run a marathon, and sit under a bodhi tree until I reach enlightenment, not to mention, respond to all my emails.

I’m not doing any of those things.  What I was doing this afternoon was reading, then I ate a banana, a plate of spaghetti, cottage cheese, garlic toast, and drank a glass of milk.

The Fourth Law of Physics says:  banana/milk/spaghetti + couch + book = sleep.

Suddenly my eyes flutter open.  I see myself cuddling my book like a teddy bear and drooling on my pillow.  “Oh gosh, fell asleep.  Guess I’m not going to do any running, writing, or meditating today.  Better go to bed even though it’s only 6:30pm.”  I crawl into bed, snuggle up with my favorite blanket and begin to drift off toward La-La Land.

A little voice in my head starts whispering to me, “This is your old self, remember?  The Great Escape Artist, the Sowbug.  What are you running away from?”

Leemee alone.  I’m tired.

“What would a warrior do?”

Suddenly a part of me is waking up.  This IS my old self.  The Sowbug.  The Great Escape Artist.  The one who is afraid to face a blade of grass, a blank white page, an hour of sitting still.

I think of my friends.  I know they struggle too.  What would I say to them if they were me?  And what would I hope to see happen?

I uncurl myself.  I sit up.  I write.