Discombobulated. A word whose meaning and mouth-feel are so well-matched. And a dear cousin to one of my all-time favorite words: Bijigetty.

So… This week I moved into my very own place. I even signed a lease. A twelve-month lease. Eeep!

After a little review of my former living situations, I was shocked to discover that I’ve never lived alone. I actually had to double-check my memory. And if you know me, you’re probably surprised, too. I just seem like someone who would. Plenty independent and all that.

But nope. I’ve lived with friends, I’ve lived with a boyfriend, I’ve never lived by myself.

And taking this step is a Very Good Thing. But the decision-making was terribly uncomfortable. The act of committing unsettled me. I guess settling in is sometimes incredibly unsettling.

I’ve been learning about personal sovereignty, the quality of owning your space, from some wise women. Playing with techniques for establishing boundaries, separating my stuff from other people’s stuff, and taking responsibility for the shape of my life.

And now I guess I’m wondering about the opposite. What about when the last thing I want is to be the master of my own domain?

Because in this particular lease-signing frenzy, I found myself casting around for someone else to tell me what to do. I found a place, the place. And then I desperately needed someone else (my mom? a friend? the landlord? God?) to tell me whether I should take it.

There’s more at play than just sovereignty. I can try to choose the next right thing. I can play the heat-seeking missile game. But I’m wondering how to step up to the plate and run my own show when part of me wants to be taken care of by someone else. (Or drown my sorrows in metaphor.)

One trick is to ask myself, what would Someone Wise do? Can I call on my internal council of representatives? If I try to guess what Martha Beck or Pema Chodron would advise in this situation, isn’t my interpretation of their advice an indirect way of accessing my own internal wisdom?

Or I might ask a future me. Me-ten-years-from-now, what do you think? But she usually just smiles beatifically, generously, and shrugs as if to say: All will be well. And: Sweetie, life turns out just right either way. This is comforting, yes. And reassuring, absolutely. And not one bit helpful.

You know how when a toddler falls or bumps her noggin, the first thing she does, before her eyes even have a chance to fill with tears, is to look up at you? To gauge your reaction? And if you soothe her saying “you’re okay, you’re okay,” she’ll usually shake off the experience and go back to her play.

I guess I’m wanting to learn how to be that “you’re okay, you’re okay” person for myself.

Do you finding yourself casting about for advice about big decisions? How do you trust yourself?

I woke up this morning thinking about taking the leap, choosing your own adventure, answering your hero’s call. And that it isn’t supposed to be easy.

People say living from your heart and steering toward your best life feels like paddling downstream.

You get this image of leaning back on your raft with the sunshine on your skin and a serene smile on your face.

Oh, Sweetie. The truth is you can’t even climb into the boat the first few times without tipping it over and soaking yourself in freezing water.

And you forget that paddling downstream still involves paddling. And it requires using different muscles. Muscles you’ve never used before which means tearing down and rebuilding. Upheaval.

Your stream is probably flat in places, and then you have to paddle a lot. And it winds through a canyon where sometimes the walls are so steep, you can’t see anything around the next bend.

Your vision is totally limited to this one single stroke.

Oh, and there are rapids. And eddies and holes full full of fear and doubt and what-ifs. You have to keep paddling. And bail water when your boat fills up. And scout the terrain ahead.

And of course you knew all of this. You chose this route precisely because the landscape is rugged and pristine and freshly carved. Which equates to uncertainty and confusion and many wrong turns.

You don’t choose it because it’s easy. You choose it because you can’t not.

And so you say yes to your hero’s call and you leap into your saga. And you find yourself repeating the mantra of my teacher Martha Beck: This is a lot harder than I expected, and that’s okay.

A lot harder. And all worth it because you’re moving downstream, in the direction of your life. Your life. The one full of serendipity and freedom and growth. And possibly a sprinkle of bliss.

And you feel this incredible relief when you remember that it’s okay for things to be hard. You stop taking the challenge personally. You meet yourself where you are. You say yes to this moment.

Except once you allow it to be hard, then you enter into this twilight space. Where Hard and Easy pull some ridiculously impossible kung fu manuever and dress up in each other’s clothes.

Sure, the old you might think this is all a bit reckless. But the new you knows that there’s nothing harder than drowning in abandoned hopes or suffocating from lack of inspiration and possibility.

This is all exactly the kind of absurdly obvious epiphany I’m always having from Dance of Shiva.

The kind of truth you can read about and you can hear people you admire explain 793 times. But none of it matters until you hit that moment when your jaw drops and you suck in your breath.

OH! I get it.

And you try to explain it, but people just roll their eyes because you can never express the intensity of your new understanding with the corresponding eloquence. And so you just keep saying:

No, really. It’s supposed to be hard. And it’s all so perfect. And isn’t it absolutely glorious?

I gave a little talk last night about the lizard that dwells in your brain, and it was quite a hit ~ the attendees were joking about their lizards for the rest of the evening, so I thought I would share it here. (Twitter version of this post: Laughing at your lizard can change your life.)

I’ve mentioned Oz before, and chances are I’ll be writing about him from time to time. He can be quite a loud mouth and loves to be heard.

Ozzie represents something neuroscientists call our reptilian brain. Essentially, there is a neural structure wrapped around our brain stem that has evolved from reptilian brains, hence the concept of a lizard living in your mind. This neural structure is responsible for keeping us safe, warning us of danger, and is famous for triggering our fight-or-flight response.

In other words, our brains did not evolve to help us feel warm and fuzzy.  They evolved to keep us alive. And one of the keys for survival of early humans was to belong to a group, hence our preoccupation today with comparing ourselves to other people, fitting in, and constantly measuring up. All that confidence-boosting stuff.

Staying alive is a pretty worthwhile goal, so what’s the problem with letting our lizards run the show? Well, our lives aren’t fraught with the same danger that our ancestors faced. We live in times of relative prosperity and abundance.  These days we don’t really worry about being eaten alive by a mountain lion or dying of exposure in the desert. Instead, we spend of a lot of time worried about things that never actually happen. Which leads to the stress and anxiety (and massive stuckness) causing many of the ails of the western world…heart disease, depression, addiction, oh my.

I learned a few keys to making friends with my lizard (to avoid unconsciously allowing him to run/ruin my life) from Martha Beck and Russ Harris:

Step one

The first step toward making peace with this cuddly reptile is to recognize it.  Simply being aware that your brain is designed to engage in constant fear-mongering can actually provide some comfort. 

The lizard part of our brain is particularly obsessed with two categories of fear: lack and attack.  And it’s perpetually broadcasting lack and attack alerts, even when, and this is the big key, there is really nothing to be afraid of in the present moment.

Lack: There is never enough! Enough money, love, security, time! Also, you will never be enough ~ good enough, thin enough, rich enough.  Oh, and no one ever loved you and no one ever will!  

Attack: They are all out to get you, all of them, your colleagues, your in-laws, your boss. You should be very wary of anyone different from you. The best defense is a strong offense!

Step two

Know thy enemy reptile.  Your lizard probably has a favorite soundtrack that it tends to play over and over like a broken record.  Identifying these tunes, and consciously noting “there goes that lizard again” creates space for peace, and can help you get some perspective.  

Some of the possible tracks on your lizard’s playlist:

• You can’t trust anyone but yourself. (And, hmmm, maybe not even yourself.)
• If I’m not perfect, no one will love me. 
• If I’m too perfect, no one will like me. (Lizards aren’t so much for the logic thing.)
• I’ll never dig my way out of debt, I’m just unlucky with money.

My lizard is a lacktastic fiend. One of his favorites whimpers is that I’m lacking in any and all specialness. Like, I’m not quite anything enough. I was never the sweetest one, or the funniest one, or the loudest one, or the prettiest one. I have this well-rounded, chameleon, girl-next-door thing. Boring. At least that’s Ozzie’s perspective.

When I’m present and connected, I can see how many opportunities have come my way for exactly this reason. Instead of seeing this quality as a state of lack, I feel grateful that I’m able to relate to all kinds of different people. And more importantly, it’s something I love to do.

Once you get a handle on your lizard’s favorite tunes, it will be easier to spot them rather than blindly identifying with them and letting it scare the bejesus out of you. Which leads me to …

Step three

Give this cuddly, cold-blooded creature a name. That way as he chimes in throughout your day, you can toss him a metaphorical grape, smile at him like you would when indulging the antics of a silly child, and stop his fear-mongering in its tracks.

You may have guessed that Ozzie’s named for the wonderful wizard of Oz. Because like that somewhat pathetic wizard, our lizard fears are mostly smoke and mirrors. And you probably remember how Dorothy & friends’ fear melted away when the wizard was exposed as a small, timid man holding the puppet strings and scaring people with special effects. Once you see your own fears for what they are, broadcast messages to warn you of dangers that most of us will never face, some of your fear will melt away, too.

I’m certainly not suggesting that fear never has a purpose.  It absolutely can, and when it spikes we want to notice it and peer closely to try to understand its message. But believing your lizard’s constant whining, and identifying with ingratiating tunes like “I’m just an unlucky fool” or “Everyone things I’m a loser” certainly won’t steer you anywhere near your right life.

I was shopping with my mom in Portland a few weeks ago and mentioned I was looking for a visual or tangible representation of my own inner lizard. I pictured something pretty or sturdy, like a bookend or a necklace pendant. Then for my birthday, my mom surprised me with this ridiculous, hand-knit, finger-puppet lizard, which I think plays the role perfectly. It’s irreverent and silly, and I control it rather than the other way around.