A Watched Pot Boils

It does! It does! You know how people are always bandying about that supposed piece of folk wisdom, "A watched pot never boils?" (Wait, where does the question mark go there? After the quotes? I can't remember. Bear with me, though.) The truth is, a watched pot does boil. I've watched before. It can actually be a very Zen experience, hanging in there with patience as you watch a pot of water transform from still and cool to rolling and steaming.

Okay, so how does this apply to life? Easily! How many times have you been so anxiously waiting for something to happen, and you just can't get your mind off it? Maybe you're a teenager waiting to turn whatever age you have to be to get a driver's license in your state. Or maybe your a working fella or lady, oh-so-excited for the launch of your new business. It's all you can think about, all the time staring at this future you can't have in the present moment. People tell you to distract yourself, think about something else for awhile, and sometimes this is very good advice.

Sometimes, though, it's impossible to follow. I'll tell you what example made me think of this in the first place. I was sick, and it was taking a long time to get better. Lying on the sofa all day, all I could think about was what I should be doing to get better, what I would do when I was better. Then I'd realize that that was all I could think about, and I'd throw myself into a tizzy for not being able to shift my focus. I got worried that I'd never get better if I obsessed about it, but I saw no way to stop obsessing, because ill health brings your attention to it ALL THE TIME.

So you know what? I gave myself permission to watch my pot boil. Whether or not I thought about it all the time, I was going to get better. Eventually, I did. And with much less angst than if I'd kept on worrying about not being able to think about something else while I recuperated.

Peace out, y'all.

Through Closed Eyes

Today I was lying down, trying to nap. I've just come back from a whirlwind road trip that involved much visiting of family, many late nights, and hours upon hours of driving. I was wiped. I needed the rest.

But it was bright out. Even with the blinds down, summertime light was pouring in through the gaps in the slats. I couldn't just drop off to sleep with the light still apparent through my closed eyelids. So my mind wandered, too tired to get up and do anything, too awake to doze off in slumber.

This is what I thought: Even when we try to shut out the light, we can't. I mean this in the metaphysical sense. (NB: I'm not trying to be religious or particularly New Age, either. Although if either of those apply to you, I'm not dissing them. By all means, if what I'm saying speaks to you, no matter what you consider yourself, let it speak to you. I'm just explaining in terms of my own life. I don't consider myself religious or New Age. Rather, I'm just a person seeking meaning. And sometimes the words that describe this meaning for me--light, faith, grace--overlap with the terms used by other institutions and communities. Side note over.) So back to the light. The metaphysical kind. In my life, I've tried to shut it out before. I'm not sure exactly why. It hurt to see the truths light made evident, maybe, the cobwebs it exposed.

The point, though, is that I couldn't shut it out. My metaphysical eyelids, if you will, could keep me from seeing, but they couldn't keep me from knowing the light was still there. So I always ended up opening my eyes again, like I did today when I couldn't sleep, and greeting the light and all it had to show me with grudging respect.

(For the purposes of full disclosure, I do realize that there are other methods of blocking the sunlight when you're trying to sleep in the day--sleep masks, a pillow over the eyes, blackout curtains. None of those are equipment we're born with, though. For this metaphor, let's go with that as a criteria both physical and spiritual. Your means for light-blocking must be something you're born with. Is that fair?)

Metaphors

Now, over the past few months, I've been thinking a lot about metaphors. Good, old metaphors that help us get through the days. Do you know the kind I mean? Maybe not--I'm not coming right out and explaining them. So I will.

Here's an example. I looked down at my knee one day and saw a bruise. I had no idea how I'd gotten it. I had to think back. Oh yeah, I finally remembered, I did bang my knee a few days ago. I guess it just takes a while for bruises to form. That phrase--"it takes a while for bruises to form"--starting echoing through my head.

It's something true of life, too, I realized. We get hurt, and it can take a while to sink in. We're in the middle of something else days later, talking to a friend maybe, and suddenly something in the conversation bumps into us where we were hurt. Ouch, we think. Why does it hurt when she tells a joke about someone making a mistake? It hurts because a few days before, maybe someone yelled at you for a mistake you made. And it's taken a little while for the bruise to form. The emotional bruise will fade, though, just as the one on my knee did.

Metaphors like this help me. I have something physical to relate to something unseen. In this case, it's the reminder that that some out-of-nowhere emotional bump isn't anything to get all worried about. I don't have to analyze it, worry about how I'll get over a neurosis, it's just somewhere I've been recently bruised. And it will go away.