The Little Man Who Told Me the Truth

The Little Man Who Told Me the Truth

Back in the Dark Ages, as I was working to emerge, I found a silver ear cuff in the shape of a tiny man. My quip was that he told me the truth, whispered it into my ear. I had to be quiet enough to hear him.

The funny thing was that it worked. Wearing that little piece of jewelry really helped me notice what I was doing, how I was behaving, and what I was both saying and thinking. Wanting to shed my coat of misery so much really helped, too.

Becoming self-aware is one of the first steps to a happy life. If I don’t know me, how I act, what I think, how I feel, how can I change it?

On the one hand, I am perfection in this moment.

On the other hand, there is always room for improvement.

Back in the Dark Ages, I hated me. And I somehow knew that as long as I hated me, until I could find a way to love me unconditionally, I would never find my way.

By wearing the little man who told me the truth, I had a constant reminder to notice my stuff. Curiously, by noticing how I was behaving, I set up a social relationship with myself. And that helped me to start seeing you, not as an obstacle to my happiness, or an annoyance, or a drain, but as a person, who also had stuff.

Seeing you as a person grew my compassion. I found that as my compassion expanded, I had enough for you, for them, and some left over for me. That made me cry for a few months.

And what a different kind of crying that was. I was used to crying because I felt sorry for myself, I felt like a victim, I felt like a martyr. I cried because I was scared or worried, or mad. And I would emerge feeling swollen and drained; kind of like a snotty tissue.

When I cried from compassion for myself, I emerged refreshed, energized, surprisingly unswollen, and feeling clean. Wow.

Someone in my life used to say to me a lot, “Can you hear yourself?” She always said it with a modicum of disbelief, as though she couldn't believe her ears. So I listened more closely to what I said. Oy. How embarrassing to hear me.

So I listen. And as I’ve gotten better at it, I can often hear what I’m thinking of saying before I say it, and can shut up instead. I think it’s a fine skill, and it certainly keeps me out of trouble.

Opening my heart to include me. Structuring my life from a place where I matter as much as you do. Treating me and you with respect. Giving up guilt and worry. Letting go of fear when I find it, anger, too. Coming to love myself, my whole self, with my character flaws, all my other stuff, has been liberating. Loving me the way I love you means a lot of stuff just falls away. It makes room for my natural life of joy and peace, satisfaction and prosperity to blossom and thrive.

How have I changed from being disgusted by me to loving myself without conditions?

(c) Pam Guthrie 2013 all rights reserved 05032013

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