I’d Rather Be a Fountain Than a Fan

​A few weeks ago, I woke up to a triggering text message. Its content doesn’t matter. But my reaction was a doozy. As with many life lessons, the hard stuff often becomes most instructive—if we’re paying attention. 
 
After indulging my negative thinking, I dashed off a snide text response. Then I joined my husband in the sauna and spewed self-righteousness and judgment. I tried to get him to agree that the sender of the text message was wrong, and I was right. He didn’t bite. So, I got mad at him.

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​Ok, I thought, school is in session. I knew my angry and resentful feelings were coming from inside me. I knew the person who’d sent the text had had zero bad intentions. He was trying to connect.
 
I decided to slow down, get quiet, and be curious.
 
First, I realized that no matter where I pointed my anger, it belonged to me. It was mine. I was creating it.
 
Part of my reactivity arose because I was exhausted. When working, it’s not uncommon for me to ignore basic needs like food, bathroom breaks, and sleep. I can become like the energizer bunny—go, go, go until my batteries run out. 
 
Often work is a balm, a magical, worry-free zone, especially when I’m writing. But I’d been focused on enrolling my fall writing circles, which can activate feelings of scarcity, lack, and low self-esteem if I’m not mindful.
 
I also tend to use work as a distraction from inner angst. But I have seen lately that my angst is an illusion; I create it with my imagination. In other words, it’s not life, things, people, or even unsavory events or situations that freak me out—personally and professionally—it’s how I think about and relate to them—and my thinking. 
 
Fear fuels much of my angst. It makes up spine-chilling stories and I identify with them. This (often unconscious) process powers uneasiness. When I don’t realize it’s happening, I believe the stories fear tells me. 
 
Awareness shines a light on this process and says No more! The jig is up! And then I feel better.
 
But I get caught in the storm and crash when I’m not paying attention. That’s what happened the day of the text message. It took me a few hours, but eventually I realized I was worn out and had depleted myself by running from my outlandish internal narratives.
 
I needed to slow down and settle even more. My mind suggested these go-to strategies: meditation, journal writing, dance, yoga, and a hike. But also, I knew I didn’t have to do anything; if I let go, my nagging thoughts would dissolve, and I’d settle naturally.
 
An image emerged in my mind’s eye: I saw myself as a whirling fan. Life unfolded. I took the text message personally, unwittingly made up a story about shit coming at me, and, like the spinning blades of a fan, I sent it all flying out into my environment. What a mess! And one of my own (unconscious and innocent) making. 
 
As I grappled with the fact that I’d been triggered by an old belief—that I’m not good enough—it hit me: I’d rather be a fountain than a fan. Instead of spraying metaphorical crap all over the place, I’d prefer to be a solid source that emanates life-affirming wisdom. A fount of hope. A cooling spray of relief. Inspiration. A source of love and light. Many fountains issue water, which is the source of life. It heals. It sustains creation. I want to be that. 
 
I envision a world where we all pull the plug on operating in our lives as fans and become fountains.
 
What would you like to emanate, provide, or source? I’d love to hear from you.