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As he listened to his friend's voice over the phone, John anticipated the criticism. "It's good. It’s well organized and very thorough." "But?" John replied. "I don't know exactly how to say this, but this isn't the best work I've seen you do. Which, in this case, seems odd, because it's your own project. John, the fact is, it's really kind of.…vanilla." "Vanilla?" John felt his grip tighten on the phone. He knew that what his friend was saying was true, but it hurt anyway. Still the intensity of his emotional reaction surprised him, and he didn't think it was appropriate. After all, he'd learned to encourage others to give him feedback and then to listen to it. "Vanilla. You know, ordinary, plain, mediocre, unimpressive. "Ouch. Okay, okay. What can I do?" he meekly responded, clearly disappointed. "I don't know. You're the would-be crusader. But if you want my opinion, you're -going to need something a lot more dynamic and sexier than this if you're going to pull this off. You're talking about a lot of money here." "I suppose you're right." “Hey, what's up anyway? I've seen you do much better work for other people. Great work!" John knew his friend meant well, but with every comment there were painful echoes of his parents' constant criticism. "I really appreciate your feedback. I'll let you know what's happening when we meet at the Body Type Café Wednesday. Thanks again." John didn't even give his friend a chance to respond. He just hung up the phone and stared blankly at the calendar hanging on the wall in front of him. He closed his eyes, and on his mental screen, he envisioned each of the 9 months he'd spent on his project drop one by one into an evil looking trash can. |
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Shaking his head and opening his eyes he thought, "No way. Let's keep it positive. This is important. I'll figure out something. All I need is some ice cream!" John made his way to the freezer and dished out a double helping of mocha almond fudge, which he topped with whipped cream. Sitting at the kitchen table with pad, pencil and ice cream, he set about trying to solve his dilemma. As he ate his snack, he could feel his mind fog and start to defocus. After all, he had been thinking about this project for nearly a year. As far as he knew, he had considered every possibility, and this was the best he could come up with. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed, stuck and depressed. "Time for a nap." After forty minutes, John awoke, rested and alert, but still feeling stuck. He thought to himself, "What, in the world am I going to do? This just isn't working." John was frustrated and wondered if this was going to be like some of the other phases he'd been through—getting really absorbed in a project and becoming a virtual expert at every aspect. Then, when something got in the way, and because he’d been so saturated with the project, if somebody didn't jump in and take over, he’d get tired of it and go on to something new. "Nah, I'm past that stuff. Besides, nobody seems to see the possibilities in this like I do. No, this is on me. If I don't follow through, nothing is going to happen." John was starting to feel an uncomfortable pressure. A feeling he was all too familiar with. "I've already worked on this so long that I'm getting burnt. What would the Zen types say?" he wondered. "If you want to accomplish much, then do nothing." John’s thoughts came in a rush, "Nothing? How do you do nothing? I'm no good at doing nothing. Well, I've tried everything else. I guess I'll do nothing." John immediately felt some of the internal pressure lift. "Well, that's a plus," he thought. But within moments, the pressure returned. John could feel it well up in his chest and neck. He couldn't seem to shut out thoughts of his project. With each idea that came into his consciousness, he could hear his mother's voice respond with all the reasons why it wouldn't work or why people wouldn't like it or some such comment. Then his own voice would appear, defending his ideas, and meanwhile, he heard his father pipe in, agreeing with his mother. "Stop it!" he nearly shouted out loud. "This isn't working," he thought. “I need to do something drastic here." Walking over to his bookshelf he searched for a book on meditation he’d once read. Finding it, he flipped to the back cover where he had written down the steps to meditating. Reviewing the list, it all came back pretty quickly. He tossed the book on the bed, rummaged through his closet for a pillow, sat Indian style in the middle of the floor, and started to breath deeply. Counting back slowly from 100, he started to feel immediate relief from the feuding voices in his head. When the voices tried to carry on, he simply turned his attention back to his counting, and they would stop. "Man, I have to remember to do this more often. This is great," he thought, and then he returned to his counting, scanning his body for tension and letting it go. Scanning and letting go. Another voice came into John's awareness but this one was different—softer, gentler. It was the voice of a man. He didn't know who it was, but somehow he felt safe with it. So instead of holding on to the counting, he simply let go and listened. "You're afraid of making a mistake. That's why you're stuck on your project. You're afraid you'll be criticized and shamed for what you've done. Nothing comes to you because you won't let go. You can't let go because you're scared." John started to feel bad because deep down he knew he was afraid. "You don't have to go there, John. There's nothing wrong with being afraid." The voice now was a woman's. "You're afraid because this is so important to you. Because in your heart, you want to help others with your ideas, and it's important that you succeed." A different man's voice appeared. It was John's 8th grade science teacher, Herbert Fish. John could see him at the blackboard, writing as he spoke. "John, you have nothing to fear. You're old enough now to know that what you create from your heart originates in and is supported by the Universe, so it can bring no harm to yourself or anyone else." "You'd better listen to him, John!" It was his little sister's voice piping in. John chuckled to himself. "Man what a collection we have going here." "Trust thyself. Every heart beats to that iron string." "Emerson? Mrs. Trecott?" "You remembered my lesson. I'm impressed. Now let go, John, and follow your intuition. You know what to do. It's in you to create right now. It’s the Nike thing. Just do it.” As voices continued to comment in the background, John found his thoughts drifting towards his project. "Why not?" he thought. "I can do anything I want. It's my project. Nobody can take it away from me." And then, as if a light bulb came on suddenly, he thought, "Wow! I'm the only one who can take it away. By not doing it." Then a notion occurred to him—a way to approach the presentation of his idea that he hadn't even considered. "Duh! Of course, it's a natural.” John was so excited about his new idea, he couldn't keep his eyes closed. "Let's get to work," he thought. When he opened his eyes and looked at the clock, he was a little disoriented. He'd been sitting nearly an hour, but it felt like minutes. He tossed his pillow back into the closet and settled down at his desk to work, feeling good and recharged, and thinking to himself, "Man, I have to meditate more often. And I’d better reread Emerson's Essays in case I meet Mrs. Trecott again while I'm doing it.'' As he sat in the atrium of the Body Type Cafe, John watched his friend carefully read his revised proposal, and he felt calm, safe, and sure of himself. He was ready for any kind of comment. Whatever it was, he would listen, consider, and then respond. "No Fear," he thought. When his friend finished reading, he looked up at John and smiled. "This is absolutely brilliant. Some of the best, if not the best, work I've ever seen. I think inspired might be a good word." "Thank you. As always, I appreciate your comments, but isn't there something you think I could improve?" "Believe me, I've been looking for it, and if it's there, it's so small, I'd say, who cares? What in the world did you do to get from what you showed me last week to this? Frankly, I'm rather impressed." "Well to be perfectly honest, I didn't do anything. You know, like the Zen types say." |
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