self-care = social justice.

a monk sits, wanting nothing more than to meditate, but finds himself constantly interrupted by people needing his attention.

eventually, he rows a little boat to the middle of a lake where, surely, no one will disturb his peace.

eyes closed, he melts into the pure, sweet silence.

less than two minutes in—knock–knock, knock.

before he opens his eyes, his mind is sharpening knives to throw at the absolute fucker who dared disturb his peace in the middle of a fucking lake, for fuckssake!

he opens his eyes ready to hurl those knives and... sees nothing but an empty boat bumping against his own.

the knocking boat didn't cause the monk’s anger—it revealed what was already within him.

e v e r y t h i n g outside of you is an empty boat.

furthermore,

when things are going to shit, it’s a sure bet the "adult" before you (or in the mirror) isn’t making conscious choices.

they’ve been triggered.

[ie, a subconscious element—the “adult” is not conscious of—has grabbed the wheel (and is now doing whatever it takes to steer them back towards whatever wacko, totally backwards place it is they find “safety”, aka familiarity).]

like when a guy "sabotages" a loving relationship because this is what's "safe" ('cause it ain't sabotage when the one doing it is trying to protect you)

if someone’s (connection/abundance/fill in the blank)-thermostat is calibrated to a chilly three degrees, mr subconscious does not let loose a sigh of relief with a sudden rise to fifteen.

(he panics because who knows what’ll happen at fifteen!? not him—that’s for sure.)

at three degrees, there’s no surprises.

(which is perfect for mr subconscious because, if he’s used to three degrees—he doesn’t live in a world where ‘surprises’ are made of unicorns that poop rainbows which shower you with pretty glitter—they’re made of mares, as in the mythical creature the word “nightmare” comes from, that shit tornadoes which slice you up with broken glass).

the devil you know really is better than the angel you don’t—if you’re a subconscious shadow whose modus vivendi = predicting where the next gut punch will come from.

being triggered means a button got pushed. (or lightly brushed against.)

[a button, fyi, is a tender—likely festering—wound, requiring attention (to heal into a scar that doesn’t turn you into an angry hell-cat), not a character flaw built into you.]

e v e r y t h i n g is a mirror.

if someone treats you like shit—it’s never about you (it’s a reflection of how they treat themselves).

if someone does something you absolutely hate—it’s always about you (seeing a reflection of something going on inside you).

[don’t worry—those last three lines will turn into field notes (or micro-essays) of their own, at some point

(because they are absolute game-changers

and

the list of field notes already waiting to be published, aka “tangents” shaved off to keep field notes field-notey, is already—at lesson two!—overwhelmingly pressing on the edges of the “fifty nine million” that was meant to give me ‘endless’ leg room

{triggering un-curated me—who forever chomps at the bit of this “ridiculous bite-size bullshit”—to pace in the corner muttering about “time wasted” 

<and spill her logorrhoea where it’s not wanted>.}.)

relax, sara.

take a breath. and another.

you can appease your continuity-hungry OCD-demons by editing all fifty nine million field notes to say “out of ninety five million” when it’s time to cross that bridge.

remember:

a) you’re here to give the readers you love

(who don’t brain-gasm at 80K word-norimaki

norimaki-gasm

and can’t take in entire, un-cut maki rolls

because they aren’t K-word demon hunters like you {and need human-sized makizushi-field notes they can actually swallow <without choking on nested brackets>}.)

makizushi (made with l❤️ve)

and

b) you might die a blissed-out death on the sushi unnamed-person keeps warning you is “dangerous” before you reach fifty nine million.

(ie, the only “time wasted” is worry given to what might never happen.)]

[in case you didn't catch what i just did; the above is the kind of 'soothing' mental dialogue you need to develop for when your "un-curated" self is triggered to start spilling it's (fill in the blank)-rrhoea allover the place—because it won't always be 'anger' what comes out, and getting annoyed at yourself won't help anything.]

“yes, but what can mr monk do besides swallow—ie unhealthily suppress—his anger and pretend to be zen while the world disturbs his every meditation?” ?

he can set a boundary.

hang a ‘do not disturb’ sign.

kindly say “i'm busy”.

point at the sign and kindly say “i'm busy” when someone ignores the sign and interrupts him anyway. 

[because yes—saying ‘no’ will make mr monk feel awkward as hell (until he’s done it enough times it feels normal—then enough more times it comes to feel holy)

and

holding that boundary is how he doesn’t burn the unlucky n^th knocker with resentment that’s boiled into rage because mr monk let it bubble beneath the surface for so long.]

lesson number two (out of fifty nine million, and change):

self-care = social justice.

every boundary you assert is one less bad-tempered you the world has to suffer.

being of service to the world starts with carrying this in your pocket:

“i do what’s best for me, so i can be the best version of me for others.”

here's what that looks like: