35 – February 4
“We all walk in the dark and each of us must learn to turn on his or her own light.”—Earl Nightingale
I saw a television commercial in which a woman was shopping for groceries in the supermarket. As she walked up and down the aisles, looking at all the food, she had an angel perched on one shoulder and a devil perched on the other. The angel whispered sweetly, “Oh, yes, yes, buy the vegetables, they’re good for you” while the devil coaxed, “Buy the chocolate cake! And ice cream!” This is a perfect illustration of the two voices we have in our heads that promote us or demolish us, our goals, and our self-esteem. Sometimes there are more than two—there’s a whole committee.
I was very fortunate. My mother always said to me, “You can do anything you put your mind to,” and when I wailed and said, “I can’t!” to anything, she would answer back, “Can’t never did.” I have a strong interior voice that keeps saying, “I can do anything.” This is the voice of Saint Chellie-in-my-mind. But I also have a powerful negative voice that speaks up on occasion. I don’t know where this one originated, but it’s the one that tells me I’m not good enough, beautiful enough, strong enough, worthy enough to get what I want. I haven’t been able to get it to take its mask off, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I just want it out of my head. I call this one Demon Chellie-in-my-mind.
(continued on page 35 of “The Wealthy Spirit”, since my publisher urged not to have the entire book permanently available online. But feel free to email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send you the whole page!)
“I think loving and empowering thoughts about myself every day.”
My friend, Suzanne Beecher, writes a daily column for her Book Club members at www.DearReader.com. This one resonated with me and the “inner voices” so she graciously allowed me to share it with you:
A police officer knocked on my front door and it’s probably a good thing my husband answered the doorbell instead of me. I was busy in the kitchen, so the hoopla was all over by the time I heard the news.
I own a bubble machine. To me, bubble watching is one of life’s simple pleasures. It brings me joy. I turn on my bubble machine whenever I need cheering up, to add fanfare to celebrations, and on weekends bubbles are floating in front of my house for the walkers, joggers and parents pushing kids in strollers to enjoy. I’ve been entertaining folks with bubbles for so long now that I’ve gotten quite a bubble reputation. If my bubble machine isn’t turned on, I get requests, “Where’s the bubble machine today Suzanne?” Bubbles seem to give folks an excuse to spend a few minutes in child-like play. People passing by enjoy the bubbles so much that they do an about face, so they can walk through the bubbles again.
And sometimes I turn on my bubble machine late in the day, about the time folks would be driving home, hoping that after a hard day at work, seeing a few bubbles would make them smile. But there’s always one. And that one called the police to report me and my bubble machine. “The bubbles could be a driving hazard and they should be stopped!”
So my husband went outside, turned off the bubble machine and gave me the news. It’s a good thing I wasn’t the one who spoke to the officer, because when it comes to protecting my joy, I’m like a mama bear defending her cubs. My first reaction was: killjoy, drag, party pooper, spoilsport, wet blanket and bubble-hater. But even silent name calling steals my joy, and puts me in the same league with the person who filed the complaint.
Joy is all around me in this life. It’s there for the taking, but sometimes it’s tough to hang on to because ‘one’ is all it takes. One cranky person who’s looking for a way to unload their crummy day. I should be forgiving, because sometimes when I’ve had a challenging day, I catch myself heading down the same road. And who knows for sure? Maybe seeing bubbles in the air ‘is’ a hazard to drivers? After all, how can a person text message friends and family, drink a soda, read paperwork they didn’t get to finish at the office, keep at least a couple of fingers on the steering wheel, sing along with a tune, and watch for the light to change–how can a person properly multi-task with bubbles floating in the air? (Whoops, there I go again, stealing my own joy.)
Watching bubbles wafting out over the sidewalk, floating high across the street, over top of the neighbor’s house, a few adventurous bubbles even heading up towards the clouds–it amazes me that seeing such a glorious sight wouldn’t make someone smile. But alas, there’s always one who tries to ruin the fun. But in this situation, there’s also one who refuses to give up her joy. I’m heading outside to turn on my bubble machine (I’ll set it back a little farther in my driveway–I’m willing to compromise–not looking for a fight.) Nevertheless, if I end up singing, “Nobody knows the bubble trouble I’ve seen” from my jail cell, my dear friend, author Blaize Clement, assures me she’ll bail me out of my bubble trouble.
Thanks for reading with me. It’s so good to read with friends.