An out of tune guitar struggles to create harmonic sounds.
The same happens to me. When I am out of tune, I can’t concentrate and bring all of me on what I want to do.
Being out of tune, to me, it means to lose the alignment with my centre. It means that I’m not present to myself.
It happens, quite often honestly.
Something or somebody just pushes or pulls me away from my centre.
When that happens, everything becomes a drag.
No matter how much I try, if I don’t find my centre and become whole again, I almost useless.
Yet, some days there are things to do and tasks to complete so I keep pushing through even if I’m out of tune. More often than not, at the end of those days, I’m exhausted and not really satisfied with the outcomes.
That is why I find it vital to have tuning moments in my day.
Like what I used to do with my guitar. I stop playing for a minute, listen with attention and tune in all the strings.
Sometimes I need other instruments to find my tune, that’s the magic of tuning conversations.
Do you remember your last trip on a train?
It’s been a while, indeed.
Saturday I was talking with a friend about the power of slowing down sometimes. In particular, when we have a problem to solve or a solution to find quickly, it’s easy to rush forward.
While she was talking, I had this image of me travelling by train and looking out of the window.
While the train runs fast and smooth, I observe the scenery behind the glass. While everything close to the train is all blurred, my attention goes to the elements in the distance. I observe the mountains on the background, the shape of a town. I can embrace all of it, but I can’t see the details. It’s when the train slows down that I can appreciate all the details around me. The trees, the flowers, the people, the places we are running through.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. I guess it’s a reminder to myself that if I want to see the details, I need to slow down.
Imagine that there is an infinite source of energy somewhere, and a huge pipeline channelling that energy into our world. Unfortunately, the pipe has many holes from which the energy leaks out on its way to us. As a result, we only enjoy a portion of that energy. There can be many reasons for that, but the outcome is always the same.
Less energy for everyone.
So, you probably would think that each one of those holes is everyone problem, so we should all feel responsible for closing them. Aren’t you?
What if I tell you that the pipeline is humanity, and those holes are human beings who are not realising their potential in their lives? Do you still think it’s everybody responsibility? And what can we do? This is the question I’ve been asking myself often in the last days.
With no answers yet.
But this awareness is growing within me, that every time a human being is not realising her or his full potential, we all lose.
This pandemic is making it clear to me, more than anything else before, that we are all interconnected. Using an old expression, we are all on the same boat, only with plenty of holes. I can fix my hole or the one around me and convince myself that I’m safe. But it’s just an illusion. The boat will still sink if we won’t close them all.
There is no one to fix.
I attended a powerful online gathering with Nick Askew yesterday evening (check out his fantastic work). He shared those words while opening the space, and I had to write them down. They sounded and still sound so pure, powerful, and liberating to me.
The gathering went on. There were many faces on my screen. Each one with a story. Some were shared, others just imagined.
And while I was observing this big portrait of humanity, a few other words came out of my pen.
There is no one to fix, yet we are all broken.
A paradox, yet it felt, and it feels so true.
How is it possible?
Then I remembered a poem by Rumi.
“The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.”
We are all pieces of the same shattered mirror. Each fragment is a mirror in itself, but not the whole. Complete and incomplete, broken and perfect at the same time.
We don’t need to be fixed. Yet, we all are aware, at some level, that we are fragments of the same broken mirror, and we long to feel whole again.
When I’m in meetings, I often jot and scribble. Sometimes I do it to fix something that has been shared, sometimes to capture a thought that I want to share. And sometimes there’s apparent reason or connection with what it’s happening in the meeting.
I don’t know where the words come from, the pen moves and then a drawing or some words are there, ink on paper.
Yesterday, during a meeting I wrote in red a sentence.
“Pain is individual, healing is collective.”
This morning, when I got to my desk, those words were there, staring at me among many other nonsensical scribbles.
“Pain is individual, healing is collective.”
Reading it, it feels so true to me, even if I can’t remember why I wrote them. Anytime I’m in pain, being it a physical or emotional one, I usually close up. I become self-centred. My own struggle is the only thing I can see. I feel as if nobody can understand the pain I’m going through.
The healing process is rather an opening one.
It begins with sharing my pain with someone I love, so they can help me. Often in my experience, the act of opening up to someone is enough to reduce the pain and heal.