“You always have a choice”.

This is a phrase that has been resounding in my ears for YEARS.

I am not saying it is a phrase I have agreed with for years. That part has only gradually started to unfold over the last year or two. But it is definitely a phrase I have been hearing for years from books, articles, friends, and most importantly (and often) from mentors.

The truth is, at least from this tiny corner of the world, that it is relatively easy for me to convince myself that I do NOT have a choice. Especially when the issue at hand is something I do not want to do, am afraid to do, think I cannot do, or think others do not want me to do (or do want me to do as the case may be – I, too, have my rebellious side), I have discovered that it can be much, much less costly in terms of energy output and personal growth work to simply say “I have/had no choice”.

Except for the ill-concealed, niggling little fact that this is not – is never – true.

You – me – each of us and all of us – we always have a choice.

The very definition of “choice” is to choose between two or more possibilities or options. In this definition we do not read anything about unwillingness, unreadiness, or a strong dislike for the potential outcome of what we are choosing to do or not do. What we may call a lack of choice is nearly always a lack of affinity for one or more possible outcomes of the choice we say we cannot make. In other words, “I have no choice” equals “I don’t like what will probably happen if I do/don’t do this thing I say I have no choice about.”

Here is an example. Let’s say you are diagnosed with cancer. Your doctor says you need an expensive treatment. You look into your bank account and – no cash. So you might be tempted to state, “I …

Many people I know enjoy the continual companionship of sound.

Whether it is the sound of their favorite music CD, a television program, a pet barking (or, as the case may be, meowing or chirping), a roommate, or other sound source, sound is a near-constant, welcome presence for many.

But not for me. I crave quiet.

I crave quiet the way my bird, Pearl, craves shiny things. To me, silence is its own form of sound, reverberating with stillness, presence, meaning, guidance, and companionship.

When I cannot experience silence daily, and often enough during each day, I start to wear down little by little. My energy is sapped with each little interruption of sound interjecting itself into my required daily allotment of silence. Correspondingly, once I am able to return to a state of stillness and silence again, I can feel the experience replenishing the well of energy, stamina, and serenity within me once more.

It is probably important to distinguish here that not all types of sound are equally draining to me. For instance, the sound of Pearl chirping is rarely an irritant, nor is any sound I am personally generating by choice, such as a music CD I decide to listen to or a television program I choose to watch. But sound that is generated over which I have no control, such as a neighbor’s loud conversation, a delivery truck’s beeping, a nearby construction site, or the indiscriminate tolling of church bells – these sounds translate in my mind as “noise”.

So part of the reason I crave quiet revolves around an issue of control, and that aspect I am continually working on so that I can improve my tolerance for the noises of others around me. Just as I cannot expect to control all elements in my life (I can always control how I react, but I simply cannot expect to control what I am reacting to), in the same way I cannot subject myself to a continual state of personal misery that only abates when silence once more prevails.

As one of my treasured mentors, Byron Katie, teaches, I must instead look at where the real source of …

In #12 of “15 Powerful Things Happy People Do Differently”, the authoress (sweetly named “The Purpose Fairy”) tackles gratitude and its opposite.

This is a particularly thorny pair of opposites in my opinion. In fact, just a little over a year ago I spent a week and a half with one of the most powerful mentors I’ve ever had the good fortune to work with, Byron Katie. We (by which I mean me and about 500 other folks, give or take a few hundred) gathered in Los Angeles, California, for nine straight days of intensive training in what Katie calls “Loving What Is”.

It took me at least half of those days just to figure out that “loving what is” (is = what is present in my life right now) does not equal being content with what is.

Loving what is also does not mean tamping down on the desire to dream a future for myself or others that looks different.

Rather, loving what is refers to acceptance.

As we arrive at #8 on the list of “15 Powerful Things Happy People Do Differently”, it is crystal clear that the issue of selfless versus selfish behavior has never been more clouded than it is in today’s culture, with its me-first-run-rife mentality and obvious, gaping inequalities in places and between people who really ought to know – and do – better.

If you just so happen to inhabit the world of recovering and recovered people, like I do, then those discrepancies can get even more confusing.

In the course of my work, for instance, it is not uncommon to encounter a “recovery martyr”. This is an individual who is hell-bent on helping others, but seems to have somehow exonerated themselves from ever actually having to endure the awkward process of accepting any help for themselves in return.

It is nearly as common in recovery work to encounter the individual who is all out for themselves – typically, this person has either spent the preceding years mired in quicksand on the recovery martyr trail, or is only just emerging from a pattern of unkind treatment from self and others that is too unacceptable to be born for one moment longer.

Somewhere in the middle, at various points along the continuum, the rest of us are usually hanging out.

I have spent the last two posts talking about my all-time favorite “mentoring manual”, as I like to call it.

This short piece, composed by an author whose name remains unknown, and entitled simply, “Rules for Being Human”, has done more to reassure and strengthen me for the journey yet ahead than probably any other single piece of literature I have ever read (and I LOVE to read).

For some reason, I started the discussion going backwards, so after reviewing and discussing rules 10, 9, and 8 in previous posts, respectively, in this post we now arrive at Rule #7, which states:

Others are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something unless it reflects to you something you love or hate about yourself.

Ouch. Right?

OUCH.

There is a dialogue in Byron Katie’s book, “Who Would You Be Without Your Story”, that just fascinates me.

She is talking with a gentleman who has arrived at her workshop bearing a particular – and particularly common – issue. Especially in recovery circles.

He doesn’t feel good enough. Or enough. Or all of the above.

He is courageous though, and has volunteered to share his story with Katie in front of an audience of hundreds, hopeful that it might help.

The gentleman begins to share, explaining that he simply does not believe he is living up to his full potential. This is Katie’s response -

If I’m good at something, I don’t give it to the world….I give it to the one in front of me, because I’ve received it myself. If I have the most sweetheart thing in the world, it’s not for everyone. It’s for the one in front of me – it’s for me first and then you. That’s all. That’s all that’s required. No push, no pull. It’s not a grand scale. It’s just for this, the one in front of you. That’s your job.

AMAZING.

She has just described the essence of mentoring, in one short paragraph.

Oh, and summed up the essential existential struggle raging inside my being since, well, birth.

That, I think, was a bonus.

Right now I am reading my way through Byron Katie’s “Who Would You Be Without Your Story?”

It is an interesting question.

Who WOULD I be?

This identity I have – as me, with my foibles (uncoordinated, can’t cook), hang-ups (socially anxious, too serious), phobias (roaches, knives), talents (music, hopefully writing!), interests (recovery, birds), etc etc etc….

Is it really “me”?

Who is me?

Who am I?

This concept of “us as story” gives me a whole new perspective on these age-old profound questions.

I might be all of the above. None of the above. Somewhere in between. Or nowhere I’ve ever been before. Or everywhere.

Fascinating.

Do you want to know what Ed (for “eating disorder”) adores above all things?

Impatience.

Today, I thought I would share an excerpt from a recent letter I received in the hopes it might be helpful for those of you who are having trouble making peace with the pace of your own recovery progress.

The writer shares:

When I was first diagnosed with my eating disorder, I saw people on the unit that told me, “I have been struggling for 3 years …. I have been struggling for 5 years …. I have been struggling for 10 years….” My first reaction (internally) was, “Heck, that’s never going to be ME.

Yet, here I am, nearly 8 years after I first started struggling with eating issues, and I can’t help but think to myself, “What on earth HAPPENED??” I am now “one of them.” So now I’m also struggling with keeping the light at the end of the tunnel in sight. If I can’t keep it shining for myself, if I can’t keep it in sight, how else will I EVER recover?? I’m struggling a lot with just wanting to give up.

I know recovery is possible….it has to be. After all, you were entrenched in your Ed for what?? 15 years?? I just have trouble acknowledging that it’s possible for ME.

Byron Katie says that we will know we are ready to do things differently when we do. I love this. To me, this feels like walking hand in hand with the present moment, knowing in the depths of my being that I am in good company, and that patience is becoming my best friend.

It is so reassuring.

A few posts ago, a reader named Karl asked a most excellent question about an experience I shared from my attendance last month at Byron Katie’s School for the Work.

Here it is, for those of you who may have missed it:

Hi Shannon, one observation about the above post: it seems to me that to say that what is “should be” is an interpretation that is added to reality. For instance, if an earthquake happens and people die, do you just rejoice in it and go, “Great! People are dying!!” Is that loving what is?? It seems to me that loving what is means taking appropriate action when life demands it. Some of BK’s [Byron Katie's] concepts just occur as very confusing for me and I’m trying to understand.

We also had several caring readers post wonderful responses, so just take this for what it may or may not be worth – my 2 cents as a School for the Work rank beginner, and coming simply from remembering Katie’s own words on this very subject.

When I arrived at the School, I had no idea what to expect. I had seen Katie speak all of once, for a good solid hour, and was flying in on fumes of fear and hope. I had arrived bearing a particular struggle in tow (as had many of the attendees, I later learned), and was there because – quite frankly – nothing else I had tried to fix it had worked.

I couldn’t meditate it away. Chant it away. Volunteer it away.

I couldn’t distract it with a new toy. A glass of wine. Or a new friend.

It simply preferred my company over all else, and would. not. leave. me. be.

I was hoping maybe Katie could hel

Before I attended The School for the Work last month, if someone had asked me this question, I probably would have responded with a knee-jerk “yes”.

After all, it’s the polite thing to say.

Even if someone had decided to hand over some unsolicited advice, I probably would have gamely tried it on for size, wriggling and scrunching in whatever way I could to reassure them that their words were both welcome and helpful.

Today, I have a slightly different perspective.

Have you ever stopped to really notice just how often you are handed advice you did not ask for, and do not want, which is not helpful (or often even relevant)?

After attending Byron Katie’s School, I began to notice.

In the School, we were taught how to listen.

I mean really LISTEN.