Over and Under

We might as well face it: we’re doomed. This mortality gig is designed to try our strength of spirit, and when I really think about it, I get suspicious that being human has set me up to fail. I can’t always hear my little voice, and when I do hear something, I question whether it’s my connection to spirit or my own duplicitous intellect pretending to be spirit. I am distracted by noise, overcome by sensation, drawn into drama, goaded by fear, and occasionally wonder if no one is listening when I speak to my imaginary friends.

In short, I think too much. This despite my best efforts not to employ what the Japanese warriors in The Last Samurai refer to as “too much mind”. I try not to overthink my life, but when I want something to materialize and it ain’t happening on my timetable, it’s easy to forget my Jedi training and start wondering if I have been duped by my New Age gurus.

I watched a podcast of Professor Ekkles some months ago, in which he warned against the perils of overthinking. He suggested that one’s aim should be to underthink, which will result in greater trust of life’s process and the universe’s grand plan for each of us. More importantly, the stilling of one’s mind, the silencing of the chatter, is the way to inner peace. Inner peace opens the channel to the higher vibrational energies beyond this realm. It brings us closer to the collective force of creation and thus more in tune with our true (spirit) selves.

But how to accomplish this, when everything about our compostable container is confounding? As recently as yesterday morning, I thought, How can I possibly succeed when I’m foiled by being a carbon-based unit? Never mind that pretty much everything in my life is miraculous. I might be grateful, but I still have these annoyingly human moments.

Time for a metaphor.

Consider the mortal coil as a suit of armour. Its purpose is to house and protect you during your deployment to this alien country. At first, it’s a novelty—it has all these cool features like sensory perception and a logic processor—but the longer you wear it, the heavier it becomes. If you don’t maintain it, the showroom shine tarnishes and the joints rust out. The surface gets pockmarked and parts need replacing. It gets bogged down by the things you added to make it more impressive: plumage for the helmet, nipples on the breastplate, gold-encrusted greaves and talons on the gauntlets. For better protection, a newer, bigger shield. A longer sword. A snazzy dagger with a jewelled hilt. A newer, even bigger, shield. Yup, it looks good, but man, it weighs a ton and is harder than ever to humph around. And there’s no earpiece in the helmet, so you’re pretty much deaf to anything that isn’t right in your face—which is also all you can see because of the nifty-but-impractical visor you put on in your twenties. How did this happen? How did this thing get so cumbersome?

It’s not too late to simplify. You need the armour, but you don’t need the accoutrements. They were only acquired to impress all the other knights anyway, and the other knights were too busy trying to impress you. Lighten the burden by shedding what you don’t need—including the mental baggage that fooled you into believing the additions were what mattered. (They weren’t.) Sand off the rust and polish up your helmet; if you keep it clean and shiny, you’ll hear better when your little voice says something. And get rid of that stupid visor. Broaden your perspective. Open yourself to the true miracle of this existence. Don’t worry so much about how long it’s taking to get where you’re going; just enjoy this moment on the journey. You’ll get there when the time is right. Besides, being present helps to quiet the frantic chatter in your head. Mind is good, but too much of it—like too little—can be harmful to your sanity.

I quit overthinking as soon as I realized I was doing it. It won’t stop me from doing it again, but that’s the joy—and perhaps the point—of being human.

I’m off to polish my tinfoil suit now.

With love,