Head for Rent

The other night over coffee, a close friend of mine was relating a recent set of circumstances that really pissed her off (her choice of words, not mine). The circumstances themselves were not very interesting to me, but she is cute and I had nothing else to do, so I sat listening and sipping my decaf mocha java, when she said something extraordinary: “I don’t know why I let people rent space in my head… for free!”

I was thunderstruck and I’m sure my face showed it, for it was one of those ah-ha moments where a host of disparate thoughts that had been percolating unbeknownst to me suddenly gelled in a concatenation of events. The connection(s) between worldview, feeling, reality, and the act of creation suddenly crystallized for me. I too have been guilty of letting others create my reality for me, one that is not in my best interests.

We are disturbed not by events, but by the views which we take of them.
~ Epictetus

So how does one go about wresting control of the creative process back from all that exists outside one’s self – that’s the real rub of it. The short answer would seem to lie in the power of choice; however, it is often the case that the mechanism through which that choice is attenuated has been idled for so long or adjusted so infrequently that it has corroded almost to the point of dysfunction – almost. A second factor that further confounds matters is that this choice, or transformation thereof, is made instantly and incessantly, moment by moment, throughout one’s existence, on a subconscious level. Changes of this type, those involving deeply ingrained habituation, can best be effected by practicing the alternative habits until a new, more desirable state of habituation evolves. But it takes a great deal of practice, and is difficult for those, like myself, who crave immediate gratification, to sustain. I have to keep reframing it in terms of a struggle for my soul; it would seem like real work, but perhaps this is not the case.

There is a parable I have heard at various times, perhaps many of you have as well, and that I think is apropos in this context, I will therefore risk being repetitive and relate it here. It is one purportedly from Native American culture in which a young boy is sitting with his grandfather, learning the ways of the shaman. The grandfather explains to the boy that inside the boy there are two wolves battling for control of his soul. One of the wolves is good and noble, pure and kind, joyful and peaceful. The other wolf is evil and dishonest, selfish and cruel, angry and restless. “But grandfather,” the boy asks, “which wolf wins?”
And to this the old man replies, “the one you feed.”

I am feeding the wrong lobo when I hang the rental sign on the helmsman’s chair of my emotions, and the price paid is profound. Especially upon consideration of the fact that simply opting to purchase a different brand of wolf-chow is no additional work – a bag is coming home from Petco and a wolf is getting fed either way – why should brand loyalty run one’s life?

There was a fuller, more three-dimensional feel to the epiphany; the understanding that I gained was somehow more substantial and more integrated than words can adequately express. Before it blurred and faded like a good dream, I endeavored to preserve what I could for future reflection, by furiously typing text into my cellphone as we flirted and watched biscotti crumbs clinging desperately to the sides of our mugs, as if to avoid succumbing to the warmth and drowning. Capturing revelations of this sort is a difficult and imprecise affair, but one that is utterly worthwhile. And while I suspect that this recounting of one such instance fails miserably to accurately relate the enormity of the experience, by trying I am telling the big bad wolf that there is no vacancy here.