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“Come back to yourself. Return to the voice of your body. Trust that much.” ~Geneen Roth
I may be showing my age, but here goes… It has come to my attention that I’m like a paddle ball.
To anyone born in the 21st century: for context, before handheld devices ruled the world, kids entertained themselves with simple analog toys—such as the paddle ball.
Picture a small flat paddle (like a small ping-pong paddle) with a rubber ball attached to the center by an elastic string. The goal was to hit the ball with the paddle, watch it fly out and then back, and keep this going for as long as possible, until the ball returns wildly and goes rogue, missing the paddle altogether.
Recently, while I was flossing my teeth, much to my surprise, my dental crown popped off in my mouth. (I’ll connect these things together; stay with me.) I was fortunate enough that my dentist was able to get me in to fix it the next day, but this unexpected mishap added to an already incredibly hectic month.
Other notable events this month included a vacation with a six-hour time change (I find that the older I get, the more challenging it becomes to travel across time zones), a broken (on the second day of vacation) phone that the day after returning home required an entire day of driving back and forth all over town to resolve, my son’s new used car (that we just purchased a month prior) broke down and required towing, and now my errant crown, just to name a few.
Like I said, it’s been quite a month.
I arrived at the dentist’s office half an hour early (because I had other unavoidable obligations that morning as well) and decided to use this time for my daily meditation. I could feel that the gentle tug to slow down had turned into a more forceful pull.
Side note: I’ll admit that even though I have a daily meditation practice, I go through periods where I successfully carve time out earlier in the day for longer, more intentional practices, and other times when I barely squeeze in a quickie at the last minute of the day. If it’s not obvious, this was a last-minute-meditation kind of month.
Once in the office, while reclining in the long black chair waiting for the dentist, I resisted the urge to distract myself with my phone and instead did some box breathing to give myself space to slow down. And again, while waiting for the anesthetic to take effect, I decided to just be with myself.
There was no rushing this. I had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. It was a welcomed pause.
With my mouth pried open, I reflected on all the life stuff I’ve been trying to keep up with and wondered if I would ever find balance. Why don’t I come back to myself more often? Why don’t I just stay put, centered all the time?
Well, as the saying goes, everything in moderation, right? If all I did was sit and meditate or pause indefinitely, I wouldn’t be dealing with these stressors, but I also wouldn’t be able to fulfill my purpose, help others, connect with family, or enjoy all the incredible experiences life has to offer.
Just “being” feels nice, but “doing” also has its advantages and is required for me to be the person I want to be.
So then it requires balance, yes? Coming back to myself often but also going out in the world to “do life.”
And that’s when my likeness to a paddle ball dawned on (or hit?) me. I am the paddle, and the rubber ball is all the stuff I’m doing—chasing lofty ambitions, checking off long to-do lists, slogging through mundane obligations, cherishing time with family, and so on… and taking time to center myself.
Just as the ball springs back to the paddle when the elastic stretches too far, I keep getting pulled back to myself, which then gives me the energy I need to catapult myself out into the world again, and off I go to do all the meaningful (and not so meaningful) things again.
In reflecting on this (my mouth is still pried open, but they’re close to finishing up), I realize that at least now in my forties, my ball keeps coming back to lightly tap the paddle, and that’s a win. In contrast, my earlier years were mostly spent with the ball flying around erratically, rarely making contact with the paddle at all.
These days, there’s a gentler rhythm to it—although I do still find myself going off course more often than I would like. But even this is softer, as I’m at peace with this truth, and I have confidence that I’ll continue to learn and adjust in ways that serve my highest self.
Driving home, I reflect on how grateful I am to have my crown re-cemented and that I took this opportunity to slow down and center. And I vow to keep making time to return to myself in a steady rhythm amid the chaos of a meaningful life.
You see, the key with paddleball is to maintain an even force and steady pace to keep the game going. If you slow down too much, it loses momentum, and if you try to go too fast or hit the ball too hard, you’re sure to lose control of it.
Similarly in life, a steady, balanced flow is achieved by keeping a gentleness and returning to yourself consistently, methodically even. When we push ourselves too fast or too hard or just against the natural grain of our being, we lose control, and it becomes harder to return to ourselves.
The crown is back in place, and so am I (for the moment). Tomorrow will bring its own pull outward, in the form of opportunity, lessons, and/or chaos. But I’ll approach it with confidence in my elastic tether, knowing that I’ll keep coming back to center myself when needed. After all, it’s not about staying centered all the time but rather always returning home.
