of the spiritual kind.
I just had breakfast. I had steel-cut oatmeal porridge with stewed berries, coconut flour and hemp protein powder mixed in. A nutritious breakfast. There is more in the fridge but I had enough. I tried to eat it mindfully.
I went to an exhibition about Tibetan Buddhism yesterday. It was absorbing. I spent a few hours there, looking at things and thinking about them. I am not a Buddhist, but I am attracted to Buddhist philosophy. It resonates. I am tentatively interested. Honestly, I just want to ease my suffering. Grow up emotionally. If I am not going to get my own way all the time, and it seems I am not, I need to supersede the longing. Transcend that shit. Drop the bag of regrets. Attain some kind of peace.
In terms of Buddhist ideals, I have a bloody long way to go before I reach enlightenment, if I ever do. What a path it is that Buddhists tread. What a commitment. I myself am mired in the daily muck. I am attached to my ideas of the way things ought to be. I am bitter and envious and sad. Twisted and crumpled in on myself. I covet. I rage, internally, but not in a righteous way.
I do think, though, that I am pretty brave when it comes to self-development. I try to confront the truth and ugliness. I don’t shy away from my problems. I stare into the pit, or void, or overstuffed cupboard of tangled junk, or wherever I’m going with this metaphor, and I think about it and what it means and how I might be able to start to sort it out. Excavate the old bones. Shine light into the shadows.
I am doing The Artist’s Way. I am trying. I am meditating. I am taking steps in my own small way. I am taking it slowly, but I am doing it. Whenever I can, I am trying to step forward into growth instead of retreating into safety. I am trying to be OK with where I am right now. Which is, not terribly well-informed. Not well-read. Not politically engaged or even much interested, honestly. I can’t fake enthusiasm or pretend to feel things I do not feel. But I can try to prime the soil for healing and growth. But is even that not accepting the way things are, and hence prolonging disquiet and unease? No. It isn’t. I thought about it and it most definitely isn’t. I am OK with where I am in my recovery, but it is most definitely an ongoing thing that I need to devote effort and time to. Invest in. Work at.
Even if I do wish I could just get some books to read and some food and hide under the covers forever.
How easy it would be to eat. I’m not saying I want to; I don’t feel the urge to binge. But it would be familiar, and easier. Easier to stuff down the pain, rather than to sit with it and feel it. I’m going to try to do that more. Really feel it. Bravely.