Reclaim Your Damn Gold
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I want to read a person’s story and other times I just want to listen to their voice. I get it! That’s why I’ve also created an audio version of this blog. Enjoy them both! Flic x
It's now the beginning of spring, and I've spent the last twelve months swimming in a pool of heartache, tears, confusion, fog, pain, and disbelief. I spent six of those months hiding in the deep end of burnout. It was a dark, cool, quiet little space. I was comfortable sitting in the shadows. What else could I do? But when I was ready, I swam to the surface. And now I'm yearning for my next move.
I've just finished a meditation where for once, I didn't fall asleep, mentally plan the next supermarket shop, or veer towards any of my usual ruminating thoughts.
In this meditation, I saw myself standing on top of rubble. Smoke was dancing and circling above the still-hot embers and chared broken bricks. The scene made me feel like I was a painted figure in the Tower card of a Tarot deck. I was aware I was standing in a place that could shake me at my very core.
The air had a feeling of emptiness, stillness, finality even. I took a few steps, noticing there was also a feeling of clarity, transformation, hope. As I inhaled, I savored the peace. It felt like the calm that follows the heavy-weight splashes of a summer afternoon rainstorm.
With one foot in reality and one foot in a dream-drenched meditation, I sensed it was time to lift the chains from around my chest, ease out of the binding from my hands and remove the tape from across my mouth. I heard the whispers of words from behind me: awaken, breathe, speak, live.
When the meditation came to an end I realised that I'm not starring in a beautiful tarot card or a cool arthouse film. Instead, I’m peeking through my bird nest hair (four days of dry shampoo will do it) looking at my cat. He's annoyed. Peering over me. His stare demands food. I spy the neat, clean laundry piles sat on the floor waiting for their rightful homes as I tread the well-worn wooden floor instead of rubble, I understand, I am home.
I can’t help but shout out, "but this ain't my fucking Kansas, Dorothy."
The last six months have been devoted to recovery. Burnout, after all, is a bit of a bastard.
I congratulate myself on no longer being hunched over clutching my tight anxiety chest. I applaud the realisation that I'm not lying in bed on a tear-soaked pillow, and I'm reveling in the fact that I'm not questioning what happened to me with an underbelly of fiery anger.
When I chatted briefly to a therapist nine months ago, she observed that I had spent the last five years doing "hard work; reinventing yourself." She was right. Any dive into a second career coupled with the determination to win a fresh start while balancing marriage and family happiness, will demand you to roll up your sleeves and get ready to part with some blood, sweat, and tears.
But what happens when you rebuild yourself only to realise that you built yourself with bricks selected from old patterns. Bricks that are influenced by old stories, old values, old dreams? Well, my darling, I discovered one of the options is to strike a match, burn the whole fucking thing down and start again. Build up, tear down. Throw all your passion, fire, guts, love, and energy into it. Burn it all. Then look at what is left. What remains of you.
Wanna hear about the story of the Golden Buddha?
Reflection is always a good thing in the name of growth. I've spent months journaling, quietly thinking, and asking myself questions. But right now, I'm craving action. And this is where a fascinating true story becomes a golden analogy. The details vary slightly from source to source, but the essence of the story remains, so pull up a chair...
In 1957 an entire Monastery in Thailand was relocated by a group of monks. One day, they were moving a giant clay Buddha when one of the monks noticed a large crack in the clay.
(Erm, why am I envisioning the Chuckle Brothers here? Now I can’t get their catchphrase out of my head… To me, to you, to me. I digress, back to the story).
On closer investigation, the monk saw there was golden light emanating from the crack. Curiosity overtook him. He began to slowly and carefully chisel away at the clay exterior until he found the statue was, in fact, made of gold. Jeepers bloody creepers, that statue had been gold all along!
Historians believe the Buddha had been covered with clay by Thai monks several hundred years earlier to protect it from a fatal enemy attack. There were no survivors from this attack. But their efforts had ensured that the Buddha had been successfully hidden. Hence, why it wasn't until that destined Chuckle brothers moving day in 1957 (to me, to you, to me) that the golden Buddha was finally and miraculously unearthed.
I know. Fucking cool story.
It gets you thinking.
Over the course of our life, we often pile up layers of clay over our own Golden Buddha. Our own sub-concious limited thinking and conditioning form one layer. Next up, come the outside influences (family, educators, coworkers, society, the media, government, and faith/belief systems) slathering on more layers. Eventually, we are so laden down with clay that we forget our very own Golden Buddha is there, underneath it all.
What I love about this story is that the statue was intentionally covered with clay to protect and help it survive. See the common thread here?
Many of us cover our own innate glistening gold with various defence strategies and coping mechanisms to survive the difficult dodgy times. When we step back and observe other people in our circle, we can appreciate that they too, are wrapped in some of their own clay casing. Numb to life, whether by intoxicants or fear or uncertainty.
I see why it’s important—valuable, even—to let life crack you open. Without it, we risk not discovering and exposing our gold. Because one day, you'll marvel at how mighty fucking fantastic you are and tip your hat to all that you are and achieved. You will marvel at how, layer by layer, you chiseled and chipped away at the baked clay covering your shine. Then you will acknowledge all those years where your magic was unknowingly hidden. All those years of sitting in the shade, not allowing yourself to glisten brightly for fear and uncertainty. The gut wrenching part is, no doubt, you did it to stop others feeling inferior from your shine.
For fucks sake. Enough is enough.
I recognise that I’ve not only recovered from an attack (well, not a military one with brass buttons, but you get my gist) but I was then able to stand up, tell the Chuckle Brothers to go and help move someone else—and then with all the courage and might I could muster, reclaim myself with my own chisel. Only minor scratches and a few small dents lingered.
I guess I could say my next step is to start buffing my gold, and no, that is not a euphemism for some solo time between the sheets. I'm buffing my gold because I feel ready to be myself again. Only this time, a lot more solid—as steady and as solid as a golden Buddha statue.
That's the thing about surviving a tough time; you tend to come out the other side, wiser, stronger, shinier. And perhaps, best of all, with a middle finger ready to flash to others and put in their place if necessary.
And like all the best stories, you did it for love. The love for YOU!
Darlin', time to uncover some gold!
Flic x
P.S. If you know a woman struggling with #everydayburnout please send her this article and tell her from me that she is not alone.
Burnout and feeling as mad as a bag of badgers can really isolate you, and the one true thing I needed on my lowest of low days was to not feel so lonely.
I see you out there, Sista. Please hold on, it does get better.
