“In my case, based on past experience, I made and created a story in my head by replaying past experiences and consciously created a story in my head. A story of how I’ve been treated and expected to be treated—thus, storytelling. I was so wrong in this case.”
“Storytelling can be exhausting,” Artie mused.
“I would agree there. It’s wasted energy, yet it begs the question: When does one use their past experience to inform or ready oneself for present dealings?”
“For me, it requires that I remain present and watch body language as well as listening to the verbal words spoken. I only use the past as passive information,” Artie said.
“Makes sense. I think I’ve had enough negative experiences around my hair that I’ve come to expect the reaction. It’s really a breath of fresh air. With this group, I don’t need to relive those past experiences.
“I get it, Smythe. You’re a woman of color with an unusual hairstyle. I get the shield. And I’m sure it’s been difficult. I know our country’s behavior for anything out of the ordinary, regardless of what it touts. Just… I don’t know. I’m not sure how to respond.”
“I know there’s a wall that I put up, Artie. It’s just that I feel the ‘ism’ every single day. The otherness. I’m just learning balance and hoping I have finally found my tribe; somewhere I can just be and be supported.”
Artie nodded her head as an ache filled her heart. Another aspect to her, she thought.
If Smythe could describe what she felt from her group during her week at the conference, it was that she simply felt loved. She was enfolded into a group that headed toward something more expansive and, to be honest, rather frightening. In any case, the interactions allowed her perspective to shift. She didn’t need to explain herself. She just was, and her enough was enough.
One evening as both she and Artie were preparing for bed, she explained further. “What’s weird is that I don’t need to fight to just be. My mentor’s assistants have a way of simply making space for whatever shows up in the room and to welcome it. I’m so glad I’ve been able to experience this. And your team? Can I just say, they’ve been great.”
Artie smiled at the compliment.
Artie and her teams made themselves clearly visible to Smythe at all times and offered her both a sense of safety and a bit of humor throughout the week. Dressed in casual attire and split into pairs of no more than two, her detail acted their parts. They were Smythe’s protectors, but they appeared to be nothing more than either patrons of the hotel or hotel employees.
Smythe was rather amused by their behavior as they kept a protective field around her that only she could see. On more than one occasion, Smythe burst out in laughter and had to recover as she watched her security detail mingle with members of her cohort group during breaks. She remembered an occasion where a pair of Artie’s team members were disguised as hotel guests. She watched as they interjected themselves into her conversations with her cohorts. They asked questions of her, pretending to get to know her, and asked her classmates questions about the conference. Serious in their explanation, her new friends politely described the reason they were there and some of the learning that had taken place. Dennis, Artie’s second in command, made silly faces to Smythe, which only she picked up on. Smythe considered their behavior lighthearted, which was an aspect of the team that she hadn’t seen before. Through their playfulness in conversations, they lost a little bit of their robotic, devoid of emotion demeanor and seemed more… human.
Yet, as amusing as their behavior seemed to Smythe, from Artie’s perspective, they were simply doing their job. Profiling each of the conference attendees, the teams were scanning for potential threats to Smythe’s safety, questioning conference-goers on particular aspects of their learning, looking for any signs that a person did not belong.
Now, sitting in the back of her team’s SUV, returning to the valley, Smythe could not help but chuckle and smile brightly. Her heart was lightened, and while watching the rich green give way to the dusty brown landscape, she continued to fondly reflect upon her week. She felt a new sense of accomplishment and drive to meet her upcoming goals, yet she also recognized a nagging uneasiness which began to make its way into her body the closer they approached the valley.
Still, for the first time, she discovered that instead of dreading whatever it was which attempted to erode a renewed sense of becoming, she began to actively search for the source and meaning behind it. Whatever it was, she knew it would offer her the insight she needed to dance her way forward along the breeze of life’s flow. Courage to meet the unknown was taking root in her psyche.
Digno
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, AFTER RETURNING HOME FROM THE conference, Smythe awoke from a dream. The words, “Made in his image and made in his imagination to be authentically and uniquely ourselves,” played over and over again in her mind. She knew she had either read or heard those words in the recent past.
She lay in her bed and listened to the silence of the night, replaying images of the people in her life who had given her concern; people who had spoken ill of her. In turn, she confessed to herself that she had done the same. She remembered the words, “God spoke over each and every single person. When we devalue someone, we are devaluing what God spoke over. If we devalue their dreams, their creativity, or their unique way of expressing themselves for the higher good of all, we have spit into the face of God. You are celebrated in the eyes of God.”
It was Maya Angelou who spoke it, I think. Celebrated in the eyes of God. I am celebrated, as is everyone else. But how am I the expression of the character of God—the thought of God? I. Celebrated in the eyes of God?
Smythe rose from her bed and dressed quickly and silently, hoping not to disturb Artie. She grabbed her jacket, turned off her bedroom light, opened her door and tiptoed out into the hallway, making her way to the dining room. She stood at the foot of Artie’s air mattress and wondered if she should wake her up. It was then she remembered her promise not to drive.
She tiptoed into the kitchen and turned on a low-beam oven light. Artie sat up and asked her instinctively, “Where are you wanting to go, Smythe?”
“To talk with the baker.”
“Ok, give me a second.”
Artie reached her arms to the ceiling and stretched. She rose from her makeshift bed and grabbed a pair of dark blue khakis and a matching sweatshirt. Quickly dressing, she called her teams before escorting Smythe into the waiting vehicle of Team 1.
The baker unlocked his door and ushered them in with his usual greeting.
“Welcome, please come in. Choose wisely.”
He was in the process of completing his final preparations before opening his shop, placing the last of his pastries into their display cases and removing his chairs from the top of the tables, setting them into place.
Artie checked the restrooms and took a peek into the baker’s kitchen. Once she was satisfied the shop was empty, she asked Smythe to call her when she was ready to leave. Before locking the door behind her, the baker offered her a cup of coffee to go, which she gladly accepted. As Artie turned to leave, he called after her, “I will take good care of her.”
“She is not hungry right now,” Smythe replied.
The baker nodded and smiled. “I enjoy her presence when she is here, my friend.”
Smythe did not reply, feeling grateful for Artie’s absence. She had begun to enjoy Artie’s company, yet there were some conversations with the baker she did not feel Artie needed to be privy to. This, she felt, was one of them. The baker brought Smythe a cup of coffee before returning to the back of his display cases, fiddling with the placement of each pastry.
“I keep dealing with feelings of unworthiness,” Smythe said to the baker, a bit annoyed with herself. It had barely been a month since the conference. Her mentor had spoken about unworthiness, stating unworthiness was a limiting belief and a form of self-sabotage, yet here the feelings were, in all of their glory. She thought about all
she wanted to be, do, and have, and noticed thoughts of inadequacy pop into mind, causing her to question herself.
Why hadn’t the information taken hold? What am I missing?
The baker removed his disposable gloves and threw them into a nearby trashcan. Walking over to Smythe’s table, he asked, “What is this unworthiness that you speak of? Americans have such an unusual way of speaking. What do you mean?”
“Um, not feeling deserving of something. Not good enough. Does that make sense?” Smythe asked, knowing that she really didn’t understand the word herself—only the feeling.
“That is ridiculous!” the baker exclaimed. “We are all… how you say… what is the opposite word called unworthiness?”
“Worthy.”
“Worthy! Yes, worthy. My language it is digno. From the word worth, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, it is just the opposite of what you said. That word unworthy should be erased from you. Everybody has merecimento and is digno; everybody has worth and is worthy.”
“I mean,” Smythe began, feeling a bit unsure of herself, “people say, ‘Well, you failed at this, you did this, you did that, you don’t deserve what you hope for. Who do you think you are?’ Or worse yet, you get the look of, ‘Nah, you’re nothing important.’”
“Do people say that to you?”
“I’m sure they have. Often, even if someone hasn’t actually said it directly to me, I can feel what is unspoken. Unfortunately, I am a bit sensitive to the energy of others.”
“Who cares what they think. You are already be-ing. Be-ing to the higher good of all. Your things from your past have no place in your present. Do you believe things from your past make you unworthy?”
“Yes, at times,” Smythe admitted.
The baker began a lengthy explanation of the word worthy, and Smythe pondered the word as he spoke. When she thought of the term worth, it was usually when she was determining whether a thing is worth the money that she was being asked to pay. For example, diamonds have worth, a car, a pair of pants; there is an inherent worth based on the quality of the thing, the material used in its production, and the time to create it.
The idea of worth as it relates to a human does seem a bit shocking. Makes sense why Joao is so animated. How is it that we place value on a person? And even more so, how is it that we place such low value on ourselves by the mere inference of a word’s usage? Perhaps we might place value on the services that an individual might offer us. There is a value equivalent to someone’s services or something under consideration, but to say that a person—their inherent personhood as a thing—unworthy seems far-fetched.
Smythe, preoccupied by her own thoughts, became acutely aware that the baker had stopped speaking and was staring at her.
“Sorry. I was pondering what you were saying. It does seem a bit ludicrous now that you mention it.”
“You—and everyone coming awake—cannot move into your highest calling in that way of thinking; this unworthiness,” he said with disdain. “You must change your perspective.”
“I know how I might do that, but how do you change your perspective?”
“Many, many ways. Meditate, say prayers, listen to the wind. It changes my mind for the better when I think of a problem I cannot solve and feel badly about it. When people say things of me that are not true, I remember the Universe has a different understanding of my being. I do not listen to what others say. Instead, I listen to who the Universe says I am, and I live into that. Sometimes it just makes me come back to what is here and now. And then I know my problem, whatever it is, will have an answer soon.”
Smythe remained silent for a moment. So many thoughts surfaced. She thought of her audacious dreams, and how she had so often said to herself, “Who do you think you are!” The only thing she could hear was the nagging past list of failure and mediocre effort she had put into most of her work. She wondered if now the feelings of unworthiness resulted in that mediocre effort, creating a kind of self-fulling prophecy.
“You take this course on your calling, no?”
“Yes. I am taking a year-long course, but it’s not really about a calling, although it has useful information. In many ways, it’s about becoming awake. The idea is to have people live more abundantly into every area of their lives.”
“Yes, yes, and what does it say about this thing you call unworthy? Such a coo-coo word, unworthy. Only worthy exists,” the baker chuckled.
“It says that we are all worthy, but that we don’t know we are worthy.”.
“Coo-coo this conversation. We are worthy. You, me; everybody worthy. We do bad things, we must pay for that. There is always a karmic debt. Yet, we are worthy. Of love, of friendship, of our calling. We are worthy. You must remember who you are, Smythe,” the baker implored.
“Then why this nagging persistence?”
“Why do you nag yourself?”
“Well, that’s not what—”
“It is you who give this word dominion over you. The cross you bear is empty, precious one, but its power remains, and it is now alive in you. It is, how you say, a journey of forever which has set upon you. It is a power that you did not ask for but was given because you are you—all of you. Yet you are afraid, no?” the baker asked, somewhat accusingly.
“What do you mean, Joao?”
“What were the whispers of your childhood?” he whispered loudly.
Amidst the whirling of an overhead fan to waft the aroma of pastries, a quiet thought began to emerge within Smythe. She attempted to push it away, believing it was a young child’s blasphemous notion.
The baker sensed she would not answer, but determined, he continued.
“A long time ago, a young carpenter boy believed he was the son of God. He walked amongst his people, doing many miraculous things: healing the sick, raising the dead. Miraculous things, no?”
The baker sighed. “But he was put to death. Why?”
“Because he claimed to be the son of God, as you said.”
“No. That is incorrect. He was put to death because his own people feared him. Because he said if he could do such miracles, so could they. He showed them the way, the way of love. Yet they feared their own power—this power manifested in human form, in ordinary form.”
The baker asked again, “What were the whispers of your childhood?”
“You’re going to think I am crazy coo-coo.”
The baker remained perfectly still, waiting for her to respond. Time seemed to stand still, and she felt pinned against a wall, seemingly unable to utter her memory out loud.
“Joao, I—”
“If you do not speak it, you will deny that which has captured your heart.”
For a brief moment, Smythe closed her eyes.
“I remember thinking that I was Jesus, or kind of like him incarnate. That I had this specific power, only I didn’t know what it was. But I sensed I had the same power as Jesus. I shoved it deep down inside, never to think of it again. But at times, it surfaces.” Tears began to fill her eyes.
“What does it surface with you, my daughter?”
“What?”
“What did you then long for?”
“I dunno. By the time I remembered it, I was working. Climbing the corporate ladder.”
“What brings you great joy, my daughter—that which is effortless?” the baker pressed.
“Writing. I can get lost in writing. I could write all day. Mostly I write lesson scripts for courses that I teach. And even at that, I can get lost all day writing out a script and planning the course. I can visualize it in my head, so I capture it on paper.”
“What is the feeling that drives you to write?”
“Compassion. There are so many people in pain.”
In a sudden moment of clarity, the baker understood. He stood up from the booth and walked to the back of his kitchen. When he returned to Smythe, he held a small seed in his hand.
“We all have a seed of God/Universe/Source/All—you choos
e the name—within each of us. I choose God, Universe, or All—they are the same to me,” he began.
“That seed of God has the power of God and it lives within us, and that, my daughter, makes us worthy. You have been given a gift, placed in you at birth to do miraculous things for others. You denied it for so many long and arduous years, and you suffered. Yet, the gift in you remains. And no one is ever too young or too old to expand their gift. You must know that this path is your path. As with all paths, it will challenge you, including your own worthiness.
“It is not an uncommon thing to doubt your worth. But you must discount the opposite meaning, and simply replace it with worth. For you are of more worth than the heavens above. The thing you thought as a young child was our Universe letting you know who you are in a way that was hoped you would understand. You simply became afraid of the power you knew was in you.”
Tears rolled down Smythe’s face. It was a far cry from his “hooray that her life was in danger” reaction several months ago. She mulled over that day—the day when she told him that she was afraid, and she uncovered she was learning and leaning into courage. She thought of their bracing conversation where he said she would never be enough until she knew she was enough. And now this. To confide in him her young “blasphemous thoughts” in the light of what he just uttered made perfect, clarifying sense.
She wondered if her Beloved was attempting, back then, in those initial conversations, to awaken her. That, much like Jesus, she was a seed of her Beloved. She wondered if perhaps the seed in her had grown restless as she walked in her own rebellious energy. She wondered if the seed—still wishing to express itself through her—had created opportunities to express the gift within her. The gift of writing, in any form which would offer connection.
She smiled and thought of Artie, who, on several occasions, would bring her water because so much time had passed as she sat fixated before her computer screen. In addition to all of her other business tasks, she would write for up to seven hours a day, nuancing her current novel, developing articles, or crafting lesson plans for future teaching or speaking engagements.
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