Are You Afraid of Success?

Tiny Wisdom:
by: Lori Deschene

“Success 
will never 
be a big step 
in the future; 
success
is a small step 
taken just now.”

 ~Jonatan Mårtensson

We often talk about releasing the fear of failure to create motivation and momentum,
but I’ve found that there’s another obstacle that can keep us from taking risks:
the fear of success.

Success in any pursuit requires responsibility. At one point, I decided this was
one thing I didn’t want. I didn’t want people to depend on me. I didn’t want to
create conditions in my life that I needed to maintain with consistency, both
in effort and earning.

I wanted the freedom to drop everything in a heartbeat so that I never had to
feel trapped. This felt safe to me. If I never chose to rise too high, I’d never have
to fall too far if I messed up; I’d never had to worry about disappointing anyone;
and I’d never have to consider that maybe I didn’t deserve any attention
or acclaim I might receive.

Perhaps you can relate. Maybe a part of you feels resistant to the changes that
might ensue if you advance professionally or personally. Maybe you’re afraid
that you’re not good enough, which makes you want to sabotage yourself when
opportunity arises. Or maybe you just plain don’t want things to be any different
than they are now.

If the last one is true—you truly don’t want to lose the weight, or get the job,
or start the business, or whatever it is that success might mean to someone else—
then you’re in a good place. You’re not afraid of success; you’re simply content
with the way things are.

But if you are scared, and somewhere inside you a quiet voice is begging for growth,
you owe it to yourself to question what’s really holding you back.

We all deserve to live lives that feel passionate and purposeful. And the world needs
for us to find the courage to do the things we want to do—not because we’re chasing
success, but because we want to make a difference, and we know we deserve and
can handle whatever that entails.

My success is learning and writing every day, regardless of how Tiny Buddha grows.
What is success to you—and are you going for it?



Photo by Frames-of-Mind
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Not Taking No for an Answer

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Tiny Wisdom:
Not Taking No
for an Answer


“Never allow a 
person to tell you no 
who doesn’t have the power 
to say yes.” 

-Eleanor Roosevelt

Many times in life we ask questions of people and then put way too much weight
on their answers.

We ask people we admire if they think we have what it takes, and then consider their
opinions fact. We ask people we respect if they think we should take a chance, and
then follow their advice as law. We ask people if they’ll take a chance on us, and then
interpret their response to be a reflection of our potential.

Other people can’t tell us how far we can go. They can’t tell us how our talents
could evolve. They can’t tell us if our risks will pay off. Other people’s “nos” aren't
what limit our future – it’s our own “nos” that do that.

The other day, I read an interview with television producer and former American Idol
judge Simon Cowell. He admitted that if Lady Gaga had auditioned for the show,
he would have instantly rejected her because of her over-the-top persona. Like her
or not, Lady Gaga has emerged as a force to be reckoned within the music industry
– a bona fide record-breaking pop icon, who likely isn't going anywhere any time soon.

Odds are she heard her fair share of “nos,” as does anyone with a dream.

Sometimes we hear “no” before we even get a chance to contact the person we really
want to reach. We hear “no” from assistants, and publicists, and agents, and associates,
and a number of other gatekeepers. Those “nos” are rarely final since a gate is made
to be opened.

We can take all these “nos” and use them as proof that we shouldn’t move forward
with our goals. Or we can learn from them, release them, and then keep moving ahead,
driven by a deep internal yes that refuses to be ignored.

Today if you come up against rejection, remember:

This does not mean “no.” It just means “not this way.”

Aug 24, 2011 |   by: Lori Deschene



Photo by Akuppa

The Tragedy of Missing Out

A father

and his son

went fishing

on a small boat,

hungry.


The father helped his son reel in his first fish, and it was a beauty.
“Great catch, son,” the father said.

“Yes, but I’m worried I’m missing out on better fish,” the son said.
“What if I could catch a bigger, tastier fish?”

“Maybe you should try,” the father said.
And the son did, catching an even bigger fish an hour later. “
A real beaut,” the father said.

“But what if there are better fish out there?” the son asked.

“Maybe you should try,” the father said.

And the son did, catching a bigger fish, then wondering
if there were better fish, catching another, and so on.

At the end of the day, the son was exhausted.

The father asked, “How did the fish taste?”

The son hesitated. “I’m not sure. I was so busy looking for better fish
that I didn’t taste any of them.”

The father smiled contentedly, patted his belly.
“Don’t worry. They were delicious.”
—


We are all of us like the son. We all worry, at some time or other,
that we’re missing out on things.
It’s why we’re so busy — we take on so much because we don’t want to miss out.
We take on dozens of goals and aspirations, because we don’t want to miss out.
But here’s the bare truth: we will miss out, no matter what.

It’s inevitable.

We cannot do or try everything in the world, even with lives twice as long.
We cannot see every town and city, read every interesting book, watch every
important film. We will always, always miss out.
Here’s the second, more important truth: if you always worry about what you’re
missing out on, you will miss out on what you already have.
Don’t make a reading list a mile long — focus on the book in your hand.
Don’t pack your vacation itinerary with every highlight of the city you’re visiting —
walk around and enjoy what you find. Don’t worry about traveling the entire world —
be delighted with the world around you. Don’t worry about what you’re missing online,
or in the news — what you’re doing is good enough.

And let go of your long to-do lists and goal lists.

They are a futile attempt to keep from missing out. You will miss out, but in striving
to do everything, you’ll miss out on the wonder of the thing you are doing right now.

What you’re doing right now is all that matters.

Let the rest go, and enjoy the fish you’ve already caught.

Post written by Leo Babauta.


http://zenhabits.net/miss/#more-8426

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That One Regret

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I remember
the call
from my mother
like it was
yesterday.

She said:
”Daddy’s sick.
He is going
to the VA
tomorrow
for testing.

It’s not going to be good.”

I remember my feelings were instantly that of relief. I had waited for this moment, in fact prayed for it my whole life, it seemed. But what she said next caused those feelings to be replaced with those of fear. “Amy, I know you think this is going to be an easy ride. I know you think you hate him. But I promise you this: it’s going to be much harder than you think because of your history together.”

For the next 24 hours I was lost in a place of nastalgia and anger. Occasionally a bit of sadness would swim in, but I would quickly get back to the matter at hand; which was hating that man. (The reasons are all unimportant to the reader, though perhaps wanted for a more graphic story, or impact. If it is imaginable, or unimaginable, it is close to accurate, so let your imagination be your guide.) The memories poured like rain from the gutter, and I was finding myself lost in the intensity of emotion. Almost getting high off of the anger itself. Getting high was something I was very experienced in, and finding ways and means to continue doing it was also my forte. I had been using opiates to “self medicate” since 1999. This was June of 2008, so I was well acquainted and well into my addiction. I, at this point, was taking only about 20 “greens” a day, but that was about to triple in a very short span of time.

I walked into his room to meet the rest of my family, who stood with somber looks about them; no one daring to make eye contact with me. I was so confused as to why they felt I needed shelter from their “bad news”. Hadn’t I deserved to know every single ugly detail about his diagnosis? Hadn’t I become a woman despite any and all attempts by him to deplete me of existence entirely? Wasn’t I the one that would be the least harmed by his sudden demise? I would rejoice! I would feel righted. I would be grateful. Heck, I may even finally stop using drugs! There in that bed lay the man I had blamed for every single problem that ever existed on earth, mine or otherwise. He was moaning a bit. He was barely conscious. Apparently he hadn’t eaten in well over 2 weeks and had been self medicating his lack of bowel movements with enemas and laxatives for 2 years. Without even one Doctor’s visit, the tumor on his pancreas had gone undetected and was now the size of a cantaloupe. They gave him 4 months to live and brought him by ambulance to my childhood home, now owned and operated by my brother and his wife. My family said to pack a big bag and stay. I did as I was told, knowing full well I would not be effected by this even a little, except to finally have some peace of mind.

Day one was fairly calm. He arrived, the hospice nurse arrived, the family gathered and discussed what needed to be done and by whom, and I began to detach bit by bit.

Being in the same house that all of my memories were attached to was a little bit uneasy. My brother and sister in law had done an amazing job of restoring, remodeling and basically reinventing the house, but it was still the house to me. My father lay in a room that once was our formal living room. He was in a hospital bed, and was able to communicate. I had never heard my dad complain in my whole life, and never seen him in pain. However on day 3 I ventured into the room (only because it was my turn to babysit) and sat down in a chair to watch tv with him. It was around 3PM when he made the first noise. It was not very loud, but it was very powerful. For the first time in quite possibly 10 years, I looked at my father. He was pale, thin, his face was beginning to sink in, and his mouth was cracked and had black tarry residue in the corners. He held out his hand for me to hold, and although I had gone over this exact scenario in my head and knew I would not respond to such manipulation by him, I instinctively grabbed it. He held my hand tightly and smiled. After 5 minutes or so, I tried to remove my hand because he seemed to have drifted into sound slumber. When I pulled slightly, he squeezed harder, and smiled bigger. This cycle continued for around 7 0r 8 times, and he finally let go. With one tired eye open he looked at me in a way I will always remember. And out of his once loud, attention getting vocal chords came a weak, raspy whisper. The voice was unfamiliar to me and for the first time since this began, tears danced down my cheeks. The words he spoke are etched in my soul.

“Your daddy loves you. Your daddy did the best he could. Your daddy’s sorry, Junebug.” That was it. That was the moment those memories of pain began to fade into a form of love. That’s when I began my process of letting go of the hate. I believed that man in that moment, and I agreed to forgive him. I also stepped out of denial of his impending death. My days there became more clear, and my motives became more pure. My job was to help him leave this earth as comfortably as possible, and with as much love as I could muster. It was uncomfortable at first, but as the days turned into weeks, I was home. I rained tears from that moment until the last. I was inconsolable, and I was grief stricken like I had never known. My mother’s words rang true in my thoughts and in my emotions. I raced through my memories trying to “fix” them with love and compassion, I rewrote events, I amended resentments. I was losing someone who, through all of his own sickness both mental and spiritual~ and now physical, had loved me. He had carried my pictures in his wallet since I became his daughter. He saved every infantile poem I had ever scribbled. He taught me how to survive, how to love, and how to be a strong woman, but my self pity and self loathing monopolized any chance of me seeing even the slightest good in him, or in my life. But he was leaving me now, and it was permanent. The game changed.

My father passed away 3 weeks after his diagnosis, to the day. It was also his 70th birthday. My father was not an evil man, he was a sick man. He was an alcoholic who never got the help he so desperately needed. I continued to abuse those “greens” until I reached 60 per day, and neared death myself. Today I have 19 months clean and sober, and I have no resentment in my heart for that man, or any other. I do have that one regret, though. That one regret is that on that day he held my hand and smiled, I didn’t smile back. He didn’t get to see with clear eyes, before the dying process really took hold of him, that I forgave him. He missed out on seeing my heart as it grew a few inches in that moment. Some say he knew it by my action, and I try to hold that as truth, but if I had just one moment to do over…

BY: Junebug

http://junebugmags.wordpress.com

{ August 17, 2011 @ 4:55 am } · { Death of My Father }
{ Tags: cancer, Death, forgiveness, healing, narcotics anonymous, recovery }
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Letting Go of Painful Memories

Tiny Wisdom: 
.By:Lori Deschene


“Pain is inevitable.

Suffering is optional.”

~Unknown




Recently, I’ve been listening to a guided healing meditation I found online. I searched
for it because I sensed something was wrong with my body, a couple weeks before a
doctor confirmed it.

I didn’t expect it would bring up old wounds, but it has. There’s one part where the
soothing voice instructs the listener to think back to the confidence of childhood.
When I hear this, it reminds me that I wasn’t confident then, and that many painful
events chipped away at my self-esteem.

At this point in the meditation, I usually shift my thoughts to a moment when I felt
self-assured performing onstage, but yesterday something different happened.
Instead, I cried. And shook. And shivered. Right then, it all came back–anger, shame,
and a sense of powerlessness.

I was surprised to feel those raw emotions, after so many years of healing and
forgiving. It reminded me that letting go truly is a journey, not a one-time choice.

A while back, in an interview, someone asked me if I think letting go is easy. I think
she was surprised when I said, “No.” In theory, it is. Just like you would simply drop
your arms and release something heavy you’re holding onto, letting go feels freeing.

The hard part is that we often need to let go over and over again. It isn’t like pulling off
a band-aid. Old wounds have a way of resurfacing as we stumble, learn, and grow.

This doesn’t make us weak. It makes us human. We don’t need to let go of anything
forever. We just need to learn what it means to let go in a moment, and then remember
what that looks and feels like to do it again when necessary.

It may mean practicing mindfulness, or reminding yourself that it wasn’t your fault,
or revisiting what you learned through the experience. What matters isn't that we find
letting go to be easy; it’s that we find it to be possible.

Today if you find yourself clinging to a painful memory, ask yourself: How can I focus
on healing in the present, instead of living in the past?

By:Lori Deschene









Image by Sofan Chan, The Art of Happiness Gallery

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