Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Believing vs Knowing

I'm still reading Mr. Dyer and have come across the section where he talks about distinguishing between believing and knowing. Believing is quite often based on some other person's dictums, while knowing comes from within our being, our gut. The source of the former does not have any organic connection that the latter possesses which begs the question: Why do we allow it to guide us in this life?

To me, beliefs are pretty sneaky things that plant themselves in our psyche.

I have asked my self what Beliefs do I hold and whether they are true. Among these beliefs are that I have a weight problem because I’m lazy, that I’m not very smart, that I missed my “time” to succeed in life and that I am bad with money.

Are any of these sweeping pronouncements the truth? I would say no; it is crap told to me at some point that I chose to believe. I can’t recall exact moments when these beliefs were planted; there was no fanfare, no fireworks. They just slunk in, shoulders hunched, slipping in with the shadows. They met up with my Internal Critic and they blossomed. As they took root, they quietly became part of the fabric of my life. They just “were”.

What is “Knowing”? I spell it with a capitol “K” because I am coming to believe that Knowing is connected to our Inner Voice. It is when we quiet down and listen to this Voice that we create the path to Knowing. The conflict occurs when the Knowings come in contact with the Beliefs.

According to the Law of Attraction, we use our emotions as an inner guide to achieve what we want (and really, what we need) in this life. When we have that everything-is-alright-in-the-world feeling, we are matching the vibration of our Inner Voice. When we feel otherwise (sad, scared, confused) we are not. I have come to find that there are these little skirmishes occurring within when I seek to follow my inner guide.

Beliefs don’t like it when we don’t believe in them anymore. They do put up a fight when we choose to listen within and not to them. Why is this? I am unsure about this. I wonder if it is a part of us that seeks to “protect” us from things that are unknown. At some point, those beliefs served a role in our lives. Good or bad, they did. Quite often, they outlive their purpose.

My beliefs are kicking up a fuss a good deal lately. I am holding on, though. I had a dream last night that has really given me a boost. My dream has other components that I can’t remember, but at the culmination I was hugging a seal with such love and I remember feeling such comfort. I looked up the meaning and it I found the Seal, as an animal spirit guide, means listening to the inner voice! How cool is that???

Sunday, September 6, 2009


I read a book this morning called "Push: A Novel" by Sapphire. I saw it on the best seller list on Amazon and was intrigued by the story. I was able to borrow it from the library and was surprised that, for a book written in 1997, it would have a relatively long wait. When I finally read it, I realized why.

"Push: A Novel" is brutalizing, grotesque, shocking, uplifting and luminous, all in one volume. It is the story of a girl, Clareece Precious Jones, a 16 year old girl living in Harlem and pregnant with her second child. The father of both children is her father. He has been raping her since she was 6. Her mother, a grotesque woman in many layers of denial, is abusive towards Precious, calling her a harlot and a 'ho because she stole her man. STOLE her man; the man who is raping their daughter. She lives on welfare, never leaving the house and torments Precious with mental, physical and sexual abuse. Yes, this poor girl is sexually assaulted by both parents.

"Sometimes I wish I was not alive," Precious says. "But I don't know how to die. Ain' no plug to pull out. 'N no matter how bad I feel my heart don't stop beating and my eyes open in the morning." She is down-trodden, abused, illiterate, angry and very fat and life doesn't seem to have any way out for her. One day a school administrator pulls her out of class (yes, amidst all this she goes to school) and notes that she is pregnant, 16 and still in the junior high. To Precious' outrage, she is removed from school and placed in a program that meets 3 days a week, preparing its students for the GED. While it seems that the System has given up on Precious, this turns out to be the life raft she has been looking for.

In a small class of 5 or 6, her teacher, Ms. Blue Rain, encourages the girls to write about their experiences, regardless of their level of literacy. All the young ladies have had stories that would make you cry, making Precious realize she is not alone. For the first time in her life, she has a person who cares for her (Ms. Rain), she has friends (Rita, Jermaine and Rhonda) and a place of her own (she eventually goes to a half-way house for young mothers after another abusive episode with her mother). Even a towering road block doesn't slow her down: she finds out her father has died of AIDS and it is discovered that she too is HIV-positive. Fortunately her newborn son, Abdul, does not.

With a little coaxing, Precious comes out of her shell. Slowly she finds her voice on the pages of her journal. She discovers to her delight that she has a beautiful gift for words, her poetry revealing the cast-iron spirit she possesses and the fragile hope she carries with her day to day. While the life she will eventually lead is a mystery, the book ends on a high note. Precious is learning her worth, her beauty, her intelligence and that life has a lot to offer. She vows to do the very best she can for her little son, who is the light of her life. I came away feeling like this girl was going to make something of herself and inspire the hell out of a lot people along the way.

So why am I writing about this? I guess it shows that we can survive anything. That no matter what we have gone through in life, there is always someone who has had a much harsher hand dealt to them. That there is beauty within us all, just waiting to be unleashed and expressed. Simply that we can choose to live this life or be a victim of it.

What am I going to choose? Life, baby, life.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


Why is it that when I do something "bad", "wrong" or "stupid", I am quick to bash myself. I'm right there to dish out the smack, slap myself down, and bruise whatever sense of worth I have. Yet if I do something good for myself, why does it not occur to me to pat myself on the back or at the very least acknowledge this good thing?

I do think some of it has origins in the way we were brought up in America (or at least when I was growing up). Don't get too big for your britches, don't get a big head, you'll get knocked down a peg or two if you keep it up! Why is this? I suppose that we can conjecture the Puritan roots of this country has influenced this, but really, who cares. All we need to know is to stop, listen and put in reverse.

I plan on writing down all the great things I do, congratulating myself on those things that I may not even notice. Now, I am not talking about helping someone cross the street, or giving someone a hand with their groceries (which are fine actions); what I am setting out to do is bring to my attention the positive actions and thoughts that I am actively making into habits. The positive reinforcement will help these behaviors set in my mind, making them easier and easier to refer to and implement.

My first entry on this list (which I intend to number so I can see these actions grow and flourish)? A serious case of letting go of anger in a situation that occured not so long ago that had had me in the grip of victim hood. I used to relish in replaying my outrage, hurt and pity but it was not allowing me to move forward. Late last week this situation yet again appeared in my imagination. I could feel myself gearing up for a quiet little rant, gathing the litany of wrongs that I had kept with me. Thankfully, I took a Moment. I stopped and asked myself "Is this what I want?". And I realized it was time. Time to finally bid adieu to this maggotty albatross that I had been carrying around. My sadistic thrill in reliving it had died. The moment I made the decision to let go, a big knot of anger released itself from the pit of my stomach and just floated away. The relief was astounding.

I would like to come up with a fancy name for this list, but really, it is the act of writing it that is the important thing. And write it I will.