I was at a workshop on Saturday, and something one of the students said got me thinking about a concept that’s come up in past spiritual classes I’ve taken: the idea that your body’s cells completely replace and recycle themselves over the course of 7 years.
(N.B.: This isn’t precisely true, though it’s a potent metaphor, and one that is linked in some ways to scientific reality.*)
And as I thought briefly about this concept of 7-year cycles in human life, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
‘That’s why my year is off to such a start!’
It occurs to me that when I was writing about the show last week, I may accidentally have created a false sense of opposition between the gifts the production gave me and the insights I was exploring around fatness and self-hatred. That’s not exactly the case.
I mean, don’t get me wrong: it was hella sobering to face up to the self-hatred. (I kind of imagine some wacky Dorian-Grey-like scenario, only with me gazing into a mirror with some twisted and bestial reflection.) Nevertheless, I am also profoundly grateful for this deeper level of awareness. You can’t clear what you don’t acknowledge, and so I am grateful to Spirit for bringing me this wake-up in the guise of a theatrical part.
So, yes, count this new awareness, however uncomfortable the truth may be, to be one of the production’s gifts to me.
But there were other, more ribbon-wrapped sorts of gifts, too.
One of the main living-my-life endeavors that has occupied my time and energy during my “forgetting how to write” patch was doing a show. Yes, after all was said and done, I got a part in that Sondheim show I blogged about back in May, when I was convinced I hadn’t passed muster. Go figure.
The show was Sondheim’s Company, which, for the uninitiated, circles on a group of friends in 1970 NYC: one single guy/womanizer (Bobby), 3 of his girlfriends, and 5 married couples who use their get-togethers with Bobby as a way to ease/escape whatever tensions are going on within the marital bond.
Well, the decluttering death march continues at its snail’s pace.
Yeah, that’s hyperbole. Not so much about the “snail’s pace” bit, but more the self-indulgent and ham-handed analogy. After all, struggling with the quote-unquote burden of too much abundance in my life and home is the Firstiest of First World Problems, wouldn’t you say?