I’m going to go ahead and say that it’s pretty much a fact, at this point, that if you’ve spent any time around someone under six-years old, you probably know most of the words to the theme song from Frozen, have sat through the movie at least once, and enjoyed it more than you thought you would. (“Fixer Upper” has some pertinent insights on relationships in it, and I’m certainly happy to have sound advice delivered to me by jolly trolls.)
But my favorite aspect of the Frozen experience is my niece’s personal take on it. She’s five-years old, and makes up songs constantly—which she either hums to herself or performs, quite flamboyantly. This, she did recently, with a number which revolved around the refrain, “I’m getting myself freeeeee!”. Standing on a chair at lunch, she sang it with such joy and gusto, tossing back her hair a la Elsa, but with a delight that was all her own. It was funny and it was touching. Sometimes we idealize kids’ lives as being free from the responsibilities and rules of adulthood (bills, jobs and so on). But little girls and boys are being told what to do constantly. So it follows that kids like my niece love the idea of wide-open freedom—the kind that feels like rolling around in the snow, or wriggling around in the sea—a vast, expansive way of living.
I like this idea, too. And I notice that it’s a struggle, often, to live free. In the outer world, of course; the alarm clock, the responsibilities, bills, all that. But in the inner world, too. As you may know from previous posts, the past few months have been very challenging for me, and I’ve felt at times this childlike feeling of indignation and objection: “But I didn’t choose this.”
Laying on the ground at a restorative yoga workshop I took recently, the teacher encouraged us to let go of anything we felt wasn’t serving us. I thought, “Please can I be free from this pain, it feels like a prison”. And then out of nowhere I felt an answer of sorts, which was, “You can get up and leave any time you like”. In my mind I saw a bright doorway in a dark cave. “Oh,” I thought. And then I realized how much of me didn’t actually want to go.
When you are in a lot of pain, it rarely feels negotiable in the moment. But for me, part of the point of physical and spiritual practice is that it opens up the inbetween spaces. When we’re really listening, on the mat or in meditation, the body tells us many things and our emotions sing many songs; if we can find some single-pointed focus, we may be able to respond with an intelligent decision. When we practice this often, it starts to open up little spaces in everyday life. It’s like if you see a piece of cloth just laying on the table, it looks opaque. But when you hold it up to the light, right near your eyes, suddenly there are lots of tiny holes in it, where the light is coming through. There are spaces everywhere. There is room for you to try something else, to stick with what you’re doing, or not do anything at all, just breathe.
So, I don’t mean, in my case, that Bingo! I can walk out of the imaginary door and everything is magically okay. The pain of our particular circumstances may be unavoidable. But I do mean that even just recognizing that I have choices within my sadness and how I deal with it—and in my happiness, and how I respond to that, too—then I have a little bit more freedom. And that feels good. One of these days I might even make a song about it, and sing it to my niece.
But my favorite aspect of the Frozen experience is my niece’s personal take on it. She’s five-years old, and makes up songs constantly—which she either hums to herself or performs, quite flamboyantly. This, she did recently, with a number which revolved around the refrain, “I’m getting myself freeeeee!”. Standing on a chair at lunch, she sang it with such joy and gusto, tossing back her hair a la Elsa, but with a delight that was all her own. It was funny and it was touching. Sometimes we idealize kids’ lives as being free from the responsibilities and rules of adulthood (bills, jobs and so on). But little girls and boys are being told what to do constantly. So it follows that kids like my niece love the idea of wide-open freedom—the kind that feels like rolling around in the snow, or wriggling around in the sea—a vast, expansive way of living.
I like this idea, too. And I notice that it’s a struggle, often, to live free. In the outer world, of course; the alarm clock, the responsibilities, bills, all that. But in the inner world, too. As you may know from previous posts, the past few months have been very challenging for me, and I’ve felt at times this childlike feeling of indignation and objection: “But I didn’t choose this.”
Laying on the ground at a restorative yoga workshop I took recently, the teacher encouraged us to let go of anything we felt wasn’t serving us. I thought, “Please can I be free from this pain, it feels like a prison”. And then out of nowhere I felt an answer of sorts, which was, “You can get up and leave any time you like”. In my mind I saw a bright doorway in a dark cave. “Oh,” I thought. And then I realized how much of me didn’t actually want to go.
When you are in a lot of pain, it rarely feels negotiable in the moment. But for me, part of the point of physical and spiritual practice is that it opens up the inbetween spaces. When we’re really listening, on the mat or in meditation, the body tells us many things and our emotions sing many songs; if we can find some single-pointed focus, we may be able to respond with an intelligent decision. When we practice this often, it starts to open up little spaces in everyday life. It’s like if you see a piece of cloth just laying on the table, it looks opaque. But when you hold it up to the light, right near your eyes, suddenly there are lots of tiny holes in it, where the light is coming through. There are spaces everywhere. There is room for you to try something else, to stick with what you’re doing, or not do anything at all, just breathe.
So, I don’t mean, in my case, that Bingo! I can walk out of the imaginary door and everything is magically okay. The pain of our particular circumstances may be unavoidable. But I do mean that even just recognizing that I have choices within my sadness and how I deal with it—and in my happiness, and how I respond to that, too—then I have a little bit more freedom. And that feels good. One of these days I might even make a song about it, and sing it to my niece.
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