Pantheon

This week I had a rather wild conversation with a woman I admire. She was nudging me towards something I want to do, must do, even. I fronted non-commitment, as I felt a bit cornered — not so much by her, as by my own roaring internal dialogue. I want to do it; I can’t possibly do it. 

She has already done this thing I want to do which is why she is the perfect person to beckon me out from hiding and tell me the truth. 

“I’m so fed up with this western mindset of having to do it alone,” she said. “You are not alone. So many have come before you. So many are in this with you.”

It instantly reminded me of something Maya Angelou said to Oprah: “Baby, your crown has been paid for, so put it on your head and wear it.”

I told her an idea I’d heard from a therapist: keep a photo of you as a child on your nightstand. That’s who you're working with. Be kind to her.

She scampered back to a shelf behind her and grabbed a photo of herself as a young girl.

“Who else is in your pantheon?” I asked, seeing that there were many other frames nestled in the bookcases behind her. Family members, saints, people she’s read and respected. When she begins to write, these are the ones that accompany her. 

What if doing the thing we must do is more like joining the others than it is like bushwhacking alone towards someplace new? 

Who might you look to?

My eyes are set on a girl with lace trimmed socks and a gold plated seashell necklace, a boy with a beaming smile and a Mrs. Partridge haircut, a man in uniform, a woman whose running shoes were stolen, a pilgrim, an editor, and a queen. 

How about you? Who’s in your pantheon?

(Photo by Jonas Smith on Unsplash)