January 22, 2007
There are days when I can go on for at least eight hours straight without talking to anyone. Not that I mean to; it usually happens on days when I’m working on something, or contemplating something, and the voices in my head are enough to keep my ears buzzed for a while.
When that happens, I often get surprised by the sound of my own voice once I do get to speak.
Now I’m realizing that I haven’t listened to my own voice often enough to know what it really sounds like.
Lately, every time I’ve found the time to just be still and try to discern my direction on so many levels of my being, I find that I can’t really sit still for very long. I’m always anxious to move on to the next “to-do” on my list; I’m always looking for something else to do or somewhere else to be. Now I’m realizing that it’s probably because I’m scared of what I’ll actually here when I do listen to myself.
Will I hear comforting words, such as those that I hear from my best friends? Will I hear reprimanding words, such as those that my siblings often hear from me? Will I hear things that I’ve never heard before and would rather not hear? Or, worse, will I hear the same old things that I hear every day—only, this time, they’ll be louder and more insistent because I haven’t really been paying attention to them before?
When I think about it, I realize that one major reason why I’m scared of my own voice is that I’m usually right about many things—at least on the level of intuition. When my gut tells me something and I just shirk it off, it will somehow prove itself right later on, whether in a good or in a bad way. When I get that familiar pounding of my heart and I ignore it, Life often pounds me on the head to tell me to listen up. When I find a part of myself giving another part of myself some advice (and then I ignore it), it will later on come back to say, “So, what did I tell you? I told you so, right?”
These are the times when I hate being right.
Then again, there have been lots of times when I followed my intuition and, therefore, have had reasons to be eternally grateful to the Universe—such as when I left my last real “job” to be a freelance writer and editor, or when I agreed to go out on a “dinner and drinks” date with Paul, or when I turned in my resignation from my most recent company just a month ago. When I do listen to my gut and act upon it, I usually end up thanking myself.
So why on earth am I being so damn stubborn?
Maybe a part of me enjoys “not knowing” (or at least pretending not to know) so that I can live my life as if everything were just happening in real time and I can just experience the events as they come. To a certain extent, following one’s intuition is like taking a peep at the last few paragraphs of a book and knowing its ending—it certainly kills whatever sense of excitement or adventure there is to reading (or living). Or maybe there are instances when my intuition points out something that is less than pleasant, and my inherent trust in the Universe makes me overly hopeful that “things will turn out all right” (even when everything else points to the other direction).
Maybe, too, I’m scared of acting upon my intuition because, if I’m right, then the Universe will find more reasons to send me more signals to interpret, which will then force me to tune into my inner voice even more, which will make me… pretty much in control of the outcome of my life. Nothing and nobody else to blame but me, my stubbornness, my arrogance, and my stupidity. Now THAT is a very, very scary thing indeed.
One writer, Joyce Anderson, put it similarly:
It is somehow easier to “not know”, to act blindly, and then to accept the outcomes of our decisions—however misinformed and misguided they may have been—later on. If things turn out to be good, then you can say that it was a “miracle” or a really good coincidence. If the outcome is unpleasant, then you can blame it on so many factors—your family, your friends, your finances, your boss, the weather… whatever, as long as it’s not yourself.
But, then again, this isn’t what this journey is about, right…? It’s not about what’s easy or convenient. It’s not about going into life blindly and then making up all sorts of excuses for failing. It’s not about letting everything else but ourselves take control of our lives. It’s not about being clueless spectators to our own existence… right?
To a large extent, this journey is about being aware of everything that goes on around and inside me. It’s about being fully present to the tingles, the thoughts, the emotions, and the intuitive sparks that present themselves throughout my life. It’s about knowing why I feel a certain way when, or why I act a certain way in spite of knowing that I should act otherwise, or… what truly brings my heart joy. It’s about fully being in my experiences, instead of just seeing them in hindsight, and about achieving my truest, honest-to-goodness purpose.
One of my favorite authors (Dr. Deepak Chopra), in one of my favorite books (SynchroDestiny), put it so beautifully:
When we learn to live from the level of the soul, many things happen. We become aware of the exquisite patterns and synchronous rhythms that govern all life. We understand the lifetimes of memory and experience that have molded us into the people we are today. Fearfulness and anxiety fall away as we stand in wonder observing the world as it unfolds. We notice the web of coincidences that surrounds us, and we realize that there is meaning even in the smallest events. We discover that by applying attention and intention to these coincidences, we can create specific outcomes in our lives. We connect with everyone and everything in the universe, and recognize the spirit that unites us all. We unveil the wondrousness that is hidden deep inside us and revel in our newfound glory. We consciously shape our destinies into the limitlessly creative expressions they were meant to be, and by doing so we live out our most profound dreams, moving closer to enlightenment.
This is the miracle of synchrodestiny.
Indeed, now is the time to let my soul speak. And I’ll be listening.