Journaling: Counting Myself

I am often at a loss when it comes to dealing with myself. Connecting with others, assuming responsibility for items in their lives and bridging gaps unasked is the mode that I have lived in for the bulk of my existence so far. For the past three years, I have been working, at least ostensibly, with a facilitator to assist me in seeing what I create repeatedly experientially, how (and why) I sustain it, and understanding what is requisite for change. This has been my, at times wavering, commitment to myself.

There have been pitfalls; ones I birthed to justify why things cannot change, to explain my depressions and my exaltations. Because we are powerful and the ultimate primogenitors of our experience, illusion and delusion are tools we employ to convince ourselves of the steadfastness of our convictions or that an altered scenery is a shift in where we have been standing prior.

For me, a character in Where Angels Fear To Tread solidifies a summary of perfection: The brother-in-law speaks of how he is always absent when things are occurring, how he lives outside of life itself. His is a tremulous reality and I am his empathic brother-in-arms. Nor is the satiric twist lost on me that I most identify with a fictional character lamenting a fictional non-existence. The French Surrealists would probably take consternation at the notion and yet eke out some mirth at the absurd, comedic quality of this conundrum.

Of late, my facilitator has been more pressing on evidentiary manifestation of my willingness to deal with self. Specifically, the fact that I have not furnished my apartment after being here over 6 months has become a focus of my capacity to give to myself. I gave a party at the end of last month, and there was no place for the attendees to sit. People enjoyed the food and the interaction but many were squatting on the floor. So the gauntlet was thrown down. Research furniture and set a plan in motion to get it situated.

Tonight, I came to a crossroads. I had my session and my facilitator, after reviewing the research, gave me until the end of this month to get the living room established. Panicked, I came home, checked credit cards and then calmed myself. I surfed the Net for awhile. Then I took action: I decided on a couch, two massive chairs, a coffee table with a marble top, a side table in the same mold, a rather artistically abstract rug, stylish modern floor lamp, two accenting pillows for the couch, a silver tealight holder, two vases, whimsical candle stands and two trunks handcrafted by Chinese artisans.

And it felt good. I have always had an aesthetic but I usually ply it in only the service of others. This time I was doing it for me and the more I looked the more enthused I became. A chore transformed into an act of self-caring and worth. I was counting myself as equal.

I still have to secure the flatscreen tv and entertainment center this weekend. However, the trepidation of too much change too fast has taken wing, and I am stepping into my own power. The simplest, mundane things sometimes have the greatest amount of magic, and reawaken the wizardry of one's imagination. Or as J.K. Rowling writes in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, " It's a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up."