I’ve been contemplating the idea of enough. It started as an unworded feeling floating around, a seed in my mind and heart not ready to sprout.
Does anyone else get things, feelings that are not quite ideas yet? They have not come up from the soil of your subconscious. But it’s germinating there; you water it, feed it warmth and sunshine, until it arises as a sprout one day.
I’m still curious what this sprout of ‘enough’ will turn into, but it is a beautiful thing to grow in oneself. I see it growing in the feminine side that I am enough as a woman in body and spirit. The confidence is frightening. She will show up soon, the woman I’m scared yet to become. But what if she is also enough.
To feel sufficient, to be satisfied with what we have: Chisoku in Japanese.Of course, by some measures, there’s never enough. We can always come up with a reason why more is better, or better is better, or new is better, or different is better.
Enough becomes a choice, not a measure of science.
The essence of choice is that it belongs to each of us. And if you decide you have enough, then you do.
And with that choice comes a remarkable sort of freedom. The freedom to be still, to become aware and to stop hiding from the living that’s yet to be done.
To have enough is one part, to be satisfied with your haves and have nots. That is a great practice. But what if you are satisfied with who you are. You are enough. Satisfied with your progress and failures.
It is a little scary, the initial thought. What purpose do I have, what drives me, what propels me through life? What if I’m not better than so and so? I need to be better, more valued, more popular more liked. I want them to know who I am; they need to know how great I am—ego living in a world of comparison, terrified of losing relevance.
I am well aware of my progress from anger and the energy it gives. The progress I have made in feeling inadequate, a failure, the running I have done from my inner critic. The amazing things I have done to prove my worth to others.
I look back at the anger and jealousy, a thief to experiences. Joy clouded by the lingering thought, “well, if they could see me now,” Instagram these days makes sure they can—our world is seen through the eyes of thousands of watchers.
Enough, as I am, at every stage, content with the journey of becoming, unattached to the outcome. I am just becoming—self-betterment or progress as a curiosity about what can be done with my life. No more, I need, you need, I should, they will see and think.
Just an open what if?
I like me now; what if I like me, and I see if I can do this. What if I like myself and I fail. If success and failure don’t matter, you are enough; either way, see what amazing things can happen if you are so inclined; many are not easy, often painful, and often require a lot of work and discipline like most things worth doing require those things.
But funny how work and discipline make me feel better as a person, so that’s a plus. I’m not sure how we got it in our head that work always sucks. Honestly, it’s an incredible feeling.
How cool would it be if you pulled it all off? And if you fail, how cool were all the things you learned. So maybe armed with this new information, you try again—self-worth and value are not attached to these things.
But joy and pride in accomplishment, how much more you like yourself when you allow yourself to be curious about your potential. And put in the work to do it.
When you walk upon death’s door, smiling, like, “oh man,” that was fun, look at all the cool shit I did, the incredible people I’ve met, and the tremendous impact I had on maybe no one. Death would look back and say, “you were enough the whole time, and you knew it, did it right, and lived for you.”
The Mountains Inside 