The other day at ecstatic dance (a sober dance event with a DJ that’s about moving how you feel) I overheard someone telling his friend that he loves it, but stopped coming for a while. He said, “sometimes I deny myself the things that bring me the most joy.”

YES! WHY DO WE DO THAT?! Why do we resist things that feel good?

There’s the classic, “I always feel better after a workout, but I struggle to get to the gym.” This makes sense. Exercise is hard. But what about things with a lower barrier to entry that JUST FEEL GOOD?

Newton’s Law of Inertia says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest. (And an object in motion tends to stay in motion.) I think this explains why in the gym scenario, it helps to get up and put your shoes on. Now we’re in motion. 

The exact wording on Wikipedia is: “Every body continues in its state of rest…unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.” 

There has to be a significant enough force to change states. 

Okay. We want joy. Why isn’t that enough? Psychological inertia? If we’re sad, or bored, or numb, or angry, it takes a significant force to shift into something else. An object that’s sad tends to…stay sad?

Maybe there’s also fear - “what if it doesn’t work?” From inside an emotion, it seems like whatever’s happening will continue. 

Okay. Let’s introduce a force.

Maybe we go for something quick and dirty. Low barrier to entry, a guaranteed fix. Like the raw cookie dough my partner keeps buying even though I tell him not to because I don’t have the force to resist eating it. It doesn’t make me feel good long-term (or even medium-term), but it’s definitely going to taste good right now.

Sometimes cheap joy get us in motion and reminds us that the other kind of joy is possible. But usually, I just eat the cookie dough and feel gross.

I know that. You know that. So let’s address an opposing force at play here: self-sabotage. We all have an inner “fuck you.” A shadow. A little devil on our shoulder that wants to fuck shit up.

We want to feel good; our brain knows that cookie dough (or your cheap joy of choice) requires minimum force.

Then in comes the little devil saying, “you already feel like trash, eat the cookie dough.” An object that feels like trash tends to stay feeling like trash. 

Underneath the desire to feel good, we also have a trash feeling. The part of us holding onto guilt and shame. The part of us harboring a secret feeling that we don’t deserve happiness. That we’re the one person joy won’t work on. That we’re insignificant and bad and it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Mr. “fuck you” can use this internal inertia to strengthen his case. Then it takes even more force to overcome.

But the good news is, if we stay and dig deeper, underneath the trash feeling, there is an even deeper desire for everyone, including us, to be happy and at peace. Like an emotion sandwich: desire to be happy, desire to be sad, desire to be happy.

If we can tap into that, knowing we’re up against inertia, we have a better chance of mustering the required force to get back in motion.

An object dancing tends to stay dancing.

I was planning a blog post about a time this week when I had to set down my expectations and get out of my own way…but something else came out instead, so I had to set down my expectations and get out of my own way. How appropriate. I ended up writing what I needed in that moment: something to help me get in the mood to create when I’m feeling uninspired or resistant. And so, here is my prayer to creativity. I hope it blesses you with a SPARK!

wherever i come from,

willing or…less,

an idea on my soul,

or nothing, just yet.

may the gods crowd around me

and fill up my chest.

may my heart be wide open

to inspiration’s breath.

let my mind be a servant

to gather, then rest,

to surrender its fears

and its thoughts of what’s “best.”

i’m lighting a candle

and making the bed,

so something more precious

can lay down instead.

i’m scattering petals,

a rainbow of colors,

so creativity knows

it belongs in these covers.

i’m singing sweet songs

to entice all the lovers.

to show them it’s safe,

i brought plenty of rubbers.

this is a place 

to be wild and free,

for everything silly 

and sacred to meet.

closing my eyes,

i bough to the tree.

i’m ready to give life

to what’s coming through me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I wake up in the morning. Sometimes, I’m energized and excited for the day. Other times, there’s no amount of snoozing that can satisfy me. As a socially anxious kid going to school, or when I had jobs I couldn’t stand, I’d wake up with enormous dread and anxiety. Some mornings, I still feel the echoes of those emotions. My body remembers waking up into a life I hated. Now, each day, I am practicing waking up gently and giving my body space to acclimate, ease the transition, and imprint how I want to live. Here’s a poem about that. It’s called “Breakfast.”

What do we feed ourselves

as we warm up to waking?

Consciousness flips on, 

percolating like a coffee maker.

Bringing thoughts, 

sensations,

emotions,

fears.

All surfacing

over the embers of fading dreams.

Observe the texture of this tender moment.

Sometimes, my skin has melted into the sheets.

Deliciousness seeps 

into every pore.

Other times, 

my mind is a slip ’n slide. 

What seeks to be freed 

comes barreling down that bright yellow stripe between death and life

like a kid on the first day of summer.

A vivid rebirth, 

each time I open my eyes.

Just allow

each 

cellular 

stretch. 

Go slow, 

we’re remembering how to be alive. 

We’re learning

and learning

how to gently awaken.

How to move

with respect

for the pilgrimage we’ve taken.

Rock me awake 

like a lullaby, backwards.

Treat each crumbling eye crust like gold 

from the mines of deep rest.

Let the body tell the story of where it’s been

and where it’s going.

Ask it softly,

What do you want to eat?

What do you want to weave?

Show me the mark you want to leave.  

Paint me a memory

that feels

like ease.

This week, I dove DEEP into my mind. I wrestled and wriggled and fought with myself. I straddled extremes and struggled to land in the middle. A symptom of this condition, I wrote two things. One - a gentler take. A description of the place I want to be, instead of the mind cavern I’ve been wandering through. The other - the cavern itself. The harsher environment and what it feels like to be there. I flip-flopped back and forth, a little of this, a little of that, unsure which was IT. That paralyzing uncertainty is all too familiar, so I’m choosing the third way. Here are both, co-existing.

Something Softer

I want something softer.

Something softer

than sticking my hand in the sharps bin of my mind.

Something easier

than wading through thoughts lined with booby traps and black holes.

I want to bathe in warm sand. 

Curves cradled, floating

in an ocean of shifting dunes.

Wearing each tiny grain like a stand-alone diamond.

Touching twinkling stars in a sky of smooth skin.

Lying peacefully under the blanket of the setting sun 

that falls and rises each day like slow, even breath.

Trusting the sky to stay open and the ground to stay firm,

I can rest.

The magic of nature’s wiser hand

carries me beyond my wildest dreams

and through my willful-est worries. 

There’s something about being humbled

that makes me feel safe. 

A cosmic smirk woven into every thread.

A pattern I don’t understand,

but must have a place in.

The Part of Me That Wants to Hurt

There’s a part of me that wants to hurt, that insists on it. It’s not as loud as it used to be. It’s not as much of me as it used to be. Usually, it’s not even there. But when it’s there, it reminds me of when it was all of me. When I was drowning in the fog. When I would lay down and pray to be taken, somewhere quiet.

Relief. I craved reprieve from an inside world that didn’t relent. It cast its shadow on the outside world, too. Every interaction threatened to confirm my worst suspicions. The walls closed in around my smallest parts.

Escape. I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was. But I couldn’t leave my body, so I shut the windows and boarded the doors. Might as well be swallowed into darkness. 

I visit this boarded up house from time to time. My nails remember scratching at the walls. My voice knows pleading to no one to let me out. If I stay for too long, I can feel the shrinking. My options narrow to two: explode into chaos or delete my existence. There is nothing between. There is no right amount of space to take up. It’s all, or none. There is no some. Some is too fragile. Some is too scary. Some doesn’t compute. And yet, life is lived in the some. Life hurts some. My body gets tired some. My mind slows down some. People move closer, and further away. And on it goes. No final rest. No perfect solution. The part of me that wants to hurt wants self-destruction, if it can’t have self-transcendence. Just being my self seems impossible.