"This room is a disaster." As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them, and understood in a way I never had before the meaning of hyperbole.
War in Libya. Nuclear meltdown in Japan. Messy office.
"One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong ..."
I guess I am compelled to exaggerate the mundane details of my life so it will feel more important. So I'll feel more important. Like in a sitcom world where everything is hyper-real and shiny and nobody ever has to do the dishes or clean the kitty litter. And if they do, something hiLARious will happen right in the middle.
Nothing hilarious ever happens when I'm cleaning the kitty litter. (Well technically, that is because my husband cleans the kitty litter, but I've never noticed anything hilarious happen when he does it either.)
My Buddhist training emphasizes seeing things as they are, without adding anything extra from our own projections. I've noticed this is very hard to do. Because in a way, our projections are a survival technique: we see one saber-toothed tiger and we figure that all of the rest of them are likely to be the same, so we project our fear of being eaten alive onto each saber-tooth that we come across.
But it gets in the way of experiencing each moment as fresh, unlike any other moment that has ever come before.
If I walked into my office and said, "This room is kind of messy, but it is messy in a completely new way than it ever has been," it doesn't have the same effect, but is closer to the truth.
And maybe instead of berating myself for not keeping it completely neat and organized, I would see the scattered papers from projects I've been working on, business cards from interesting people I've met and magazines with tons of good reading material in them as opportunities to be grateful for the rich life that I have.
Complete with dirty dishes and kitty litter.
Photo of old TV courtesy Gonzalo Díaz via Creative Commons
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