E-Newsletter

December, 2020

Christmas is a thought

Not to step on any religious or secular toes, but let’s look at the ecstasy and misery of another so-called day on another calendar in a make-believe land called time.

“It was always so special for us.”

“It was horrible. We screamed and fought. I can’t wait for it to be over.”

“I miss them/him/her so much.”

“THEY ARE COMING AT 4:00 AND I’M NOT READY!!!”

I remember Working with Byron Katie 16 years ago in front of many earnest devotees and weeping openly because my husband had again destroyed my Christmas (and the children’s) by taking all the gifts under the tree and holding us hostage (to obey, to do what he wanted, yada yada yada) in hopes he would be benevolent enough to give them back to us.

What a miserable person he was. He endeavored to make everyone suffer the way he had at each of his childhood Christmases.

To give one day – or season - so much intensity, one must be very afraid of one’s own mind. One must be afraid of one’s own thoughts.

I am at home in my mind now. I notice I love my thoughts most of the time. And if I find a thought stressful or even repetitive, I write it down and do the Work on it. I don’t hold resentments any longer.

So, as I cozied up to the fire on Christmas, looking at all the gifts and trash and food and hearing my daughter softly snore on the couch next to me (and the cat do the same), I had to laugh at the thoughts running through my mind, somewhat fueled by caffeine and sugar, yet mostly sedated by the exquisite love I was feeling for my friends, my family, my health.

And now I watch my thoughts grumble things like, “shit I have to put all this stuff away.” And “I swear I will never put up this much stuff again.”

This morphs into a search on the internet for Christmas decorations on sale, and I laugh and love and laugh and love and notice that today is New Year’s Eve, and this is supposed to mean something too.

I love my thoughts. I love you. I have no idea what any of it means.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Right? Ah, the world in time.

Love,
Gopita