I think I've always been my own worst enemy, harshest critic and unflagging detractor. Somewhere in childhood, I believe, I made a decision about my own lack of self-worth: that decision dogs my footsteps relentlessly to this day. I couple that with a rather enthusiastic right-brained approach to things . . . dive in and do, and if it works I'm rather surprised; if it doesn't, that old decision comes out of the storage closet in my heart and whispers "see, I told you so . . . you really aren't good enough".
The odd thing is, there have been times in my life that I've done things based in both sides of my brain, stepped outside the shell created by perception of lack of self-efficacy, and I've been very happy and very successful. I'd really like to get to that place again, with a great quickness.
I posted about my Dad dying. For myself, I miss him; for him, I'm glad because he was old and tired and starting to be sick, and quite ready to go. I think I didn't discuss as much of the meaning of his death, particularly at this time in my life. I've been out of the workforce for a year, tending to him and to his affairs. It's been a sort of "not quite retirement" time: a preview, if you will, of things to come. I'm not impressed. I've put on 20 pounds, and lost muscle. I have new aches and pains that I didn't have a year ago. If this is what my retirement life is going to be, it sucks and I don't want some, now. But I digress. Dad's death means the end of the home of my childhood (must sell). It means saying goodbye to all of things in the house (part of the estate, must sell). What I hadn't really considered, or at least I did with my left brain but not my emotional mind: I have to go through all of the volume of stuff that is mine, and make choices (must downsize). All of the school photos of my kids, cards I've bought over time to send to someone and never sent, art supplies I don't use, books I may read again someday, clothes that are no longer in style but that I love (some of which almost fit), three bookshelves of professional books that I've clung to in defense of a career that I really don't want to go back to . . . file boxes after file boxes of professional handouts (again, the career I don't want to go back to), dishes I've had for more than 30 years. The guitar I don't play, with all of its trappings. Then there are the fluffy fibers and fiber arts tools . . . Oh, dear.
And parallel with all of that . . . what the hell am I going to do to make a living?
Dad did leave me some money. If I'm careful, I can live for a couple of years on it, while I'm figuring out my life. I'd rather not do that, however, because realistically I'm looking at retirement in 10 years or less (that's its own set of pain, and too long a birdwalk for this post). That little nest egg could be used to really enhance whatever home I end up buying so that I can live comfortably (gourmet kitchen, spa bath, fiber room with sink and stove for dying fluffy fibers, eco-friendly square foot garden, the little things in life :-D).
And in the meantime, the ongoing grieving process for everything I'm saying goodbye to . . . it's hard to reframe to the positive in the midst of loss.
Add to that the fact that I've been in not only a career crisis for sometime now, but also a spiritual crisis, and I have a triple-header of shit to sort through, and a triple-header of choices to make. All sprinkled with that voice of "see, you're really not good enough . . . you're going to fail." Glarrrrrghhhh.
If I knew I couldn't fail . . . what would I do? All very conditional. Based on the premise that I will not fail. The reframe: "I know I cannot fail, so I will . . ."
To be continued . . .
The odd thing is, there have been times in my life that I've done things based in both sides of my brain, stepped outside the shell created by perception of lack of self-efficacy, and I've been very happy and very successful. I'd really like to get to that place again, with a great quickness.
I posted about my Dad dying. For myself, I miss him; for him, I'm glad because he was old and tired and starting to be sick, and quite ready to go. I think I didn't discuss as much of the meaning of his death, particularly at this time in my life. I've been out of the workforce for a year, tending to him and to his affairs. It's been a sort of "not quite retirement" time: a preview, if you will, of things to come. I'm not impressed. I've put on 20 pounds, and lost muscle. I have new aches and pains that I didn't have a year ago. If this is what my retirement life is going to be, it sucks and I don't want some, now. But I digress. Dad's death means the end of the home of my childhood (must sell). It means saying goodbye to all of things in the house (part of the estate, must sell). What I hadn't really considered, or at least I did with my left brain but not my emotional mind: I have to go through all of the volume of stuff that is mine, and make choices (must downsize). All of the school photos of my kids, cards I've bought over time to send to someone and never sent, art supplies I don't use, books I may read again someday, clothes that are no longer in style but that I love (some of which almost fit), three bookshelves of professional books that I've clung to in defense of a career that I really don't want to go back to . . . file boxes after file boxes of professional handouts (again, the career I don't want to go back to), dishes I've had for more than 30 years. The guitar I don't play, with all of its trappings. Then there are the fluffy fibers and fiber arts tools . . . Oh, dear.
And parallel with all of that . . . what the hell am I going to do to make a living?
Dad did leave me some money. If I'm careful, I can live for a couple of years on it, while I'm figuring out my life. I'd rather not do that, however, because realistically I'm looking at retirement in 10 years or less (that's its own set of pain, and too long a birdwalk for this post). That little nest egg could be used to really enhance whatever home I end up buying so that I can live comfortably (gourmet kitchen, spa bath, fiber room with sink and stove for dying fluffy fibers, eco-friendly square foot garden, the little things in life :-D).
And in the meantime, the ongoing grieving process for everything I'm saying goodbye to . . . it's hard to reframe to the positive in the midst of loss.
Add to that the fact that I've been in not only a career crisis for sometime now, but also a spiritual crisis, and I have a triple-header of shit to sort through, and a triple-header of choices to make. All sprinkled with that voice of "see, you're really not good enough . . . you're going to fail." Glarrrrrghhhh.
If I knew I couldn't fail . . . what would I do? All very conditional. Based on the premise that I will not fail. The reframe: "I know I cannot fail, so I will . . ."
To be continued . . .
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