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I say that to myself so often, but I still find myself pushing impatiently for outcomes.
I want answers, clarity, and results before I even know how to handle them.
Trust the process:
I used to snarl and curse those words when they were said to me. But, I find myself repeating them to myself over and over (and over) the past few months.
“Trust the process, trust the process, trust the process, Sarah.”
Every day I ask to be shown the way but ignore or avoid when things, people, and opportunities fall away—when I don’t like what is happening.
I ignore that these things are also part of the process.
There is a constant need to be in action. An addiction to “being in action.” We rarely, if ever, rest back in the stillness in fear of the unknown—the void; the pain; the pains of loss; the pain of not knowing, being lonely, and feeling small, silly, and useless.
We resist the emptiness.
Yes, for me, with emptiness often comes pain and fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the pain. There is space for me to feel what I have been avoiding. A space that I have filled with “stuff,” often for the sheer addiction to filling it.
There is an unconscious fear of being empty, feeling judged (primarily by myself) for not being busy, not working, not delivering, not birthing new projects, for not, for not, for not. And it is complete bullsh*t!
Over the last few years and again the last months with COVID-19, many things have ended. Many things have run their course, or I have made a conscious decision to let them go. People dear to me have left, I have left others—the cycle of life.
I have been reflecting much on these cycles—how we as a race are addicted to the summer and autumn fullness, business, joy seeking, and reaping the rewards. It always needs to be payday.
However, what about letting the land, the body, rest deeply?
What about finding stillness and nourishment?
What about going in rather than out?
Personally, I love winter—warmth; fires; slow, dark evenings; sensuality; and quiet. I feel I have been in the winter phase (the last few months, especially). A time of deep grieving, shedding, and diving into the womb space—into the depths of my “be-ingness.”
Golly, it’s been so painful. I’ve had to sit with myself in a way that I have never done before. I have been deeply lonely and lost; I have not known what to do with myself.
I have questioned my point on the planet. I’ve had to sit with my darkest shadows coming up—recognizing patterns, my imprints—patterns that have formed from a deep fear of abandonment, rejection, and lack of worth.
These are my survival mechanisms. We all have them. Rarely do we invite them in for tea, sit with them, trace them, track them, and learn from them. Befriend them and self-parent them. We aren’t careful to honor them. We hide from them (something I definitely do).
I’ll give you an example: Netflix addiction.
Yet, here I come. I emerged and am ever-emerging.
Last year held some of the darkest times of my life to date—a rebirth. I know this has been a theme for many people through these current climes.
It has been a time of soul emergence. We are bursting through the bullsh*t and into actuality—a realization of what is and what is not.
Many of us want illumination, we want rebirth, we want to be conscious, yet we forget that birth is the first major trauma we experience. We have to push (and be pushed) out of a safe, warm environment.
And then we enter a world full of sounds, bright lights, slaps, and needles—crikey! If we are then taken away without bonding, we experience more trauma—abandonment issues set in from here, and the cycle repeats. Yes, birth is not an easy rite of passage, nor is it when we face change in our lives. Something has to give.
To allow ourselves to trust the process, fully, we have to surrender control of the outcome.
This one is hard for me. But I know this is the truth. When I push, when I am so busy, yes, I am deeply creative, but it is often “top-level” firefighting creativity. It can be amazingly helpful, and it’s why I am great at improvising, but it is not sustainable.
I have burnt myself out (many times). I had nothing else to give. Like our planet, when we keep pushing, sowing, and harvesting, the soil becomes devoid of nutrients. We can put stuff back in, which helps, but it doesn’t serve us in the long-term. It is a short-term solution. What we need, what the earth and body require, is rest, stillness, and nourishment from the deepest levels.
When the body is cared for, held with love, and compassion, it has time to integrate and consolidate fully. To recharge, to be fallow and become ready again.
If you have gotten this far and you’re thinking, “Yeah, it’s okay for you to say this, but my life sucks,” I get it. I’ve been there again and again. And I know I’ll be there again and again in the future.
A huge part of me kicks, screams, fights, and wants to push against this. But, I have had to stop and realize that this no longer works for me. Crikey, it can be a long process. I told my therapist it is dull, boring, and deeply frustrating!
However, I am finding riches and gems I never knew were possible. A softening into myself, my body, my femininity, and a balance of masculine and feminine. I am finding the joy that I have honestly never felt in the past.
Realizing how I have treated myself in life doesn’t make me soulfully happy at all. I have been reclaiming a wildness and innocence that is not forced but flows.
Only by this allowing of time and space do I begin to know, see, and feel the formless—the creative juice that wants to flow but has been deeply suppressed.
Trust the process.
Give time where there is time.
Learn to self-parent.
From here, we plant seeds that develop strong, deep roots.
From here, we allow the fullness of creativity to flow.
We nourish and become nourished—we cease to burn ourselves out—we have sustainability.
We flourish; we thrive.
From here, we become.
Trust the process.
Lean back into the arms of the self, of the divine, and allow it to come.
I am still surrendering and learning to trust the process. I know it is a life-long journey, but hey, I love to learn.
Trust the process, my friend.