Part 2: Choosing Difficult Things
Observations after two personal commitments
If you didn’t get a chance to read Part 1 of this series, please enjoy that here for additional clarity.
I recently committed to choosing two (perceived) difficult practices. One commitment was to walk after dinner, no matter what the weather was doing. The other was to refrain from any refined sugar for those twenty five days. These choices aren’t inherently difficult to everyone. But for me, they created enough sense of resistance, or challenge, to be labeled “difficult”, which provided opportunity to build internal power. Although I made the choice to commit to them on New Year’s Eve for twenty five days, it had nothing to do with a New Year’s resolution. This could have been done any time of year. Below are some reflections after completing my commitments.
Recently I read this quote by Mollie Engelhart from her book Debunked by Nature.
“We’ve all heard it. Hard times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times. How do we break that cycle? We choose discomfort - on purpose, as holy. We teach our kids to face it. Farming does that. Parenting does that. Life does that, if we let it.”
What struck me most is that discomfort can be holy. This is how I felt as I chose two things that could create discomfort 25 days ago - to release the intake of refined sugar and to walk every evening after dinner. What was holy about these choices?
To revere the body temple and choose better for it is holy.
To choose “effort” over “laziness” is holy. While I’m used to settling in after dinner with a book or video, the effort it takes to go out and walk, even when it’s cold, overcomes resistance.
It is holy to glance toward the silhouetted woods on a full moon.
It is holy to feel my stiff body awaken as I move instead of sit.
It is holy to breathe fresh air instead of the “comfortable” indoor heated air.
We have forgotten that choosing discomfort, choosing difficult things, can be one of the holiest things we do. Perhaps this is why almost every religion on earth calls for periods of time for fasting. When we give up all that stuffs us, we empty out, we purge, we feel more deeply and clearly. What could be more holy than this discomfort?
This is not about self-abuse and punished restriction. This is about empowered choice, building inner strength, and surrendering instead of resisting. Truly overcoming resistance is to “chop wood, carry water” without the mind thinking on it. Can I refrain from sugar, without thinking about it being difficult? Can I do it without an immediate sensation of craving ( which is nothing more than the mind telling me I want something)? Can I walk with great wonder and joy amidst the night sounds, without telling myself it’s “hard”?
You bet I can.
And I did.
Was it perfect?
No.
I realized on the first night my worcesterchire sauce had sugar in it. Something I forgot to do, was scrutinize every single label immediately. There is sugar in almost everything made by a food company trying to get you to buy it. On the second day I realized some smoked salmon I bought had sugar. I bought it before my goal began, so instead of discarding the sacred food, I ate it, and vowed to do better with all label reading.
So no, it wasn’t perfect. But I did it until I got better and better. Deeper consciousness arrived for what I ate, what every single ingredient was. Nearly everything I made was from scratch. No more ketchup. No more jam. No more restaurant food except briefly while a friend was in town. I did my best to choose menu items that were less likely to contain any sugar.
In the evenings, I used to grab a little piece of dark chocolate, or some leftover holiday cookies. During the days of my commitments, I found I lost the taste for refined sweets in the evening if I got very still and asked my body what it wanted. It wanted a piece of cheese. It wanted fruit. I made whipped frozen bananas and wild blueberries, which tasted like the best ice-cream on earth. Other times I ate nothing after dinner. Tea was what nourished me. The opportunity to surrender, go to The One Still Place, and reflect, made it quite easy to refrain from sugary (refined) foods.
My evening walks summoned the ongoing reverie I have for nature. Some walks were in the easing light of day. Other walks took place up the road in the darkest of darks. I observed where every footstep landed, feeling the ground meet the ball of my foot in pure darkness. Stars burst forth, Orion cartwheeled through the night. Some walks took me into the woods, over boardwalks, past steep hills with subtle hints of fog.
My wife, Carol, joined me for most of the walks. Occasionally I did one on my own, taking in the silence of the night. Each walk was holy in its own way. And I enjoyed feeling the cozy after-dinner warmth of wanting to stay home, slowly moving past the resistance to walking, finally to taking the action. No walks were regretted. I was rained on and snowed on (the beautiful fluffy stuff of dreams). My cheeks burned with the cold of winter. On a few nights, the air was sweet and warm. Winter fed me her colors of yellows, red, and browns. Green only poked her head out to say hello here and there. Green was sleeping. And I loved it. I honored winter’s many shades of crunchy leaves beneath my feet.
One evening Carol and I checked on our friend’s cats. We had the opportunity to get fresh spring water nearby on the way to her house. The walk that evening landed us at a cemetery and small Baptist church we had no idea was there. A storm came in soon after, so we ate early and walked early. The cat protected her sacred lair and moved from lap to lap while we read. Soon my commitments would be complete. I felt a small feeling of relief in releasing the structure necessary to keep commitments. And I felt a small pang of grief in letting go of this holy time spent practicing stillness, surrender, and choice.
Discomfort can indeed become holy. In fact, one can revel in it. The key is to release the resistance. The mental story is the sabotager of all sabotagers. It’s the small voice that says, “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to. I’d rather do that than this. It might hurt. I want. I need.”
All of that is a story. None of it is true. There is only the pure, present moment. Make the choice to step into it in any way you choose. Make it holy. Transmute the discomfort into holiness by shifting your perspective. And then act.
In holiness, I send all of my lovely readers a great big hug!
Julie xo