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Adventures in Being Triggered Post #8: The trials (and joys!) of remaining in (triggered) Nondoing.

My commitment to nondoing the things I sooo want to do re: my novel and IM growth (see posts from last week) grows sticky.  


Bills are late. I’m flaky. I ensnared Arden in multiple tear-filled explosions last week.


All of the above probably could come to an end if I’d just go ahead and get going and DO something.


So, why remain in this (consciously) triggered state? Why allow this stickiness?


For what if this stickiness actually is situational depression that would be cured by “just getting on with it”? What if I’m trapping myself in a slow but epic swirl of inertia?


It comes down to body-level trust. Ralph Waldo Emerson's friend asked him how he know for sure that his impulse and decision to live “wholly from within” were not evil.


Emerson: “I replied, 'They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the devil's child, I will live them from the devil.’”


My impulse (nor Emerson’s) is not of the devil. It’s helpful, tho, to bring a hypothetical to its absolute worst possibility.


Body-level trust is a muscle. Perhaps that muscle-building is another name for nondoing.


I want to build that muscle. I want to live evermore daringly and happily. I want my days, my life, to feel evermore like ME. And so I bless the stickiness, and her triggers, as best I can.  I tell them, “You can stay.”


This season has not been without profound pleasures. I’ve found myself ravenous for books, &, as a result of this renewed appetite, was found by a delicious independent bookstore nearby. I happened upon a sumptuous body cream. I am relaxed in more moments.   


And within this relaxation, excitement about the doing I so much want to do: it makes the tenderest little cooing sounds.


Fear urges that  we must capitalize upon this evidence of the possibility of doing. We must grow this baby. Feed it hormones, for fuck’s sake, just—DO SOMETHING.


Gently, I hold the fear, the dear trigger, close. See its innocence. And I look to the Goddess.


Pray to her to help me continue to lovingly tend my nondoing until her cooes give way to gurgles that, swollen of their own accord, yield to a bubbling “Holy shit it’s happening” spill. Help me remain still until, and not a moment before, I find myself—my body—in joyous, flush-cheeked doing.

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