In a guided meditation this week, I was instructed to go back to some random moment in my childhood. I’ve never been good with visualization, so I was surprised when my mind immediately jumped back into a vivid memory of 2nd grade. Sister Theresa was reprimanding me for taking my pencil sharpener out of the garbage can. She had thrown it away because it was my third time getting caught with it. We were not allowed to have pencil sharpeners, but I kept bringing mine. I liked my pencils sharp. 

The punishment was one of the worst I could have imagined at the time. I had to stay back in the classroom while the all of the other students learned how to make my most favorite food on the planet, soft pretzels. Soft pretzels! I ate them every single day for lunch. They were perfection. They were not served hot. They were served at room temperature and wrapped in Saran wrap. Their smooth, salty skin and soft insides never failed to bring me great pleasure. I always ate them slowly, peeling the skin off little by little and then eating the inside. Pure bliss. 

Sister Theresa had told me to stay in my seat while she took the class to the cafeteria. After the students filed out of the room, she turned off the lights, gave me one last displeased look, and closed the door. I sat in my chair, filled with shame and crushing disappointment. I wondered why was I was such a bad kid. Why I couldn’t follow the rules. Why I couldn’t be like the other kids whose pigtails were even, who didn’t have allergies and nosebleeds, who did their homework, and always had friends surrounding them. What was wrong with me?  I felt sorry for myself as I imagined the kids happily rolling dough and learning secret tricks to making that perfect food.

The longer I sat, the worse I felt. As it turns out, I had a long time to reflect on my depravity. 

I’ll never forget the look of terror on Sister Theresa’s face when she returned with the class and saw me still sitting in my chair. “Have you been in your chair this whole time?” she asked. “Yes,” I responded. She stood frozen for a moment and then calmly nodded and carried on with teaching. Looking back, I’m pretty sure she had forgotten that she had left me in the classroom.

COMPASSION AND REVISING THE STORY

So here I am in my meditation, sitting next to the little girl in that dark classroom. We were told to spend time with the child. After looking at her head hanging low over her desk and her arms folded tightly across her stomach, I spoke to her. “Missing out on making soft pretzels? Oh man, that sucks. You LOVE those. They’re so delicious. It would have been so fun to see how they were made.” I paused and smiled warmly at her, and I continued, “Bringing a pencil sharpener to school when you knew they weren’t allowed, getting scolded three times for it, having it thrown away … Hmmm… You must really like your pencils sharp. And you know what else? You must have lots of courage and determination. That was kinda badass of you to sneak up to the front of the classroom and take that pencil sharpener out of the trash.” And then I just sat silently with her for a few moments before the meditation ended.

VICTIMHOOD TO AUTHORSHIP

That little girl was believing everything her ego was telling her. She was believing she was bad. 

The experience was a powerful reminder of how I get to be the author of my WHOLE story. I get to expand on what has already been written, and I get to choose what gets written as my life continues to unfold. 

First drafts are often written by my ego (i.e., all of the fear-based messages telling me what I need to do, be, say, have, and know to be safe – valuable and loved – in this world). While the ego’s drafts may have helped me stay alive and “safe” as an infant and child, they are rooted in fear and are no longer serving me as an adult. Do I need to go back into all my old stories to release their hold on me? Absolutely not. I want to enjoy life NOW. But if a story comes up for me in a present moment (e.g., I’m prompted in meditation, something triggers the memory), I believe that is an invitation for revision and healing. 

As for my current and future experiences, I want to remember:

I always have a choice of how to live and experience life. While I can’t stop my ego from writing shitty first drafts, it has no real control over me. I don’t want it to be a co-author of my life. I want to see it for what it really is – just a character in my story. Not even a human one. A mechanically programmed one. 

I want to experience life as that brave and determined little girl who likes her pencils sharp and who isn’t afraid to take risks co-authoring her life with God/Love.

Funny how a little meditation offered such clarity around what it looks like to reclaim my authorship. It’s magnificent what happens when we get still. 

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