What I teach has been around for a really long time. Like, thousands of years. Sure, I deliver it from my sassy, irreverent voice that loves big words, poetry and metaphors, but the reality is that very little (none?) of it is MINE.

For a girl who gets whole body tingles from creating new stuff, and who loves all things unique, this can be a problem.

I crave the spotlight, the recognition and being the source of a-ha’s far and wide. I want to offer the new, the shiny, the singularly mine.

My deepest fear? Being the same old thing.

Can you relate?

So many choices in my life were driven by the desire to do what has not been done before. To be what has not been. The messages of assimilation in my life (especially strong in a family of immigrants) were relentless. And so were the exhortations to be extraordinary. I chose to listen to the latter.

Even the idea of ‘tall poppy syndrome’, which is supposed to be a cautionary tale, called to me like my lover’s whisper. Yes, please, was my response.

There were rewards, admittedly. Accomplishments, acknowledgment, and distinction.

The problem is that there’s also a price. A fairly hefty one, in fact.

Singularity is in opposition to connection.

To create distinction, I gave up communion.

Standing apart means being apart.

It was not long ago that I decided the price was too high, that the evil dictator in my head, making claims of MINE, was pushing me from separateness to isolation.

All that grasping for ‘new and different’ had built a formidable barrier against sharing, contribution and connection.

So I chose to overthrow the tyrant. (There is something to be said for being so repulsed by something that you go forcefully in another direction, even if you don’t know where you will be led.)

I released the ego gratification of “I made this and it’s mine, mine, mine!”

I evicted the idea that my consciousness isn’t born from and swimming in the ocean of everything that came before me.

I broke the addiction to singular, unique, and individual. (I recently heard a scholar say that we are more afraid of being insignificant than being dead. Yup.)

And I began to see. The Sufis call this strike of Grace our inherent neediness.

We share air with the oldest trees, ancient humans and newborn turtles. The stuff of which I am made has been recycled many times. My entire body is renewed every 7 years, in fact.

From this perspective, there is no ME. There is only the temporary assembly of material that I happen to carry around before I release it back to the Universe.

Same goes for my thoughts. While my ideas, or my art, may come through me, they are not from me. It would be more accurate to say that they are born of everything I have ever experienced up until the point of emergence. Every teacher. Every teaching. Everything.

Kind of makes the idea of mine pretty silly.

Also takes a whole lot of pressure off.

When I recognize that my value is not in the singularity of my contribution, (or the significance of my possessions!) I am freed from chasing the unattainable.

It’s much easier to do amazing things when you’re not busy filling an unfillable hole.

I still want to do amazing things. Without the misunderstanding of who owns those accomplishments. And what they mean about who I am.

That, my friends, is the best kind of revolution.

Join me?