“To put the spring back into the old mattress” 1
I heard that expression yesterday in a movie, and loved it. I wrote it down. Because that is what our work is about. Putting the spring back into the old mattress…
It could be said about you.
Most of you were happy little children once, even if life was tough. Even if bad things happened to you or around you. You jumped out of bed looking forward to the day ahead!
I remember I was, even though I had bad things happen to me.
And then, slowly, gradually, the inner turmoil, the inner misery set in, and now the misery is there, most of the time.
You may even have periods when it feels like someone or something is trying to annihilate you. You think it’s a psychic attach. And it is… except that it isn’t coming from the outside.
It is a part of you that attacks another part of you.
We call that part, that attacker, your soul. It’s the part of you that remembers what you were supposed to grow into, both inside and outside.
It reminds you that if you have no Self then you are a Frankenstein’s monster. 2
You are that sapient 3 creature. You do have a soul, but it is ignored, violated, and is trying to fight back the only way it knows, by torturing you.
But, because you have no idea you have strayed from the path that was meant for you, because you have no idea that you are a monstrous, inside disfigured creature, you enlist all the drugs, all the food, all the pleasure, and all the distractions you can… you go to “healers” and shamans, and magician sorcerers to make you feel better, to no avail.
All your efforts are misdirected: your soul is not the illness. The rest is. You want to keep the rest… and you want to kill your soul.
You get busy busy busy, to distract yourself. But in the moments where you can’t be busy, like when you try to sleep, there it is…
The soul doesn’t speak. At least not in words. If you are hearing words, it is not coming from the soul.
The soul sits on the left shoulder area, like a baby that you are trying to burp, and it is just like a baby. Gurgles, smiles, whines, cries. No words.
You have attended to everything, your body grew automatically, maybe even your mind… but you have never really attended to your soul. So your soul remained a little baby who is crying for the bottle, crying for attention, crying to be noticed. Wants to grow. But it needs you to do the work… it cannot. It can only nudge you.
Imagine having to carry an infant everywhere. The infant you don’t allow, don’t support to grow up and don’t allow to be in step with you, or you to be in step with him/her.
Your soul correction tells you what the baby needs you to provide.
Often in plain English. Sometimes in not so plain English.
If you really got, if you really internalized that soul correction is your life’s purpose… and none of the happiness you hope for will come without it, you would start developing strategies, practices, right now, and get busy.
Instead you hope that you can continue doing what you are doing, and the baby, the soul with finally shut up and let you enjoy life.
Not going to happen.
- I cannot do it for you.
- No one can do it for you.
- It is YOUR job.
- And you are a squeamish slacker… pretending to be stupid. To be dull. To be dense. To not knowing what to do…
And maybe you don’t…
But you are not even looking.
You come to me, you ask, I tell you… and you leave as if nothing was said…
Some dude comes along and says: I’ll make America great again… and you cheer.
America is you, my dear. And YOU surely won’t make America great… with your attitude of waiting for someone else to do it.
I am quite disgusted with you.
Will you ever DO anything? Doubtful.
I’d love for you to prove me wrong.
- A woman said that in the movie The Dressmaker, as she ordered a new dress… if you can’t figure out what she meant… I am sorry for you.
- Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus is a novel written by English author Mary Shelley that tells the story of Victor Frankenstein, a young scientist who creates a grotesque but sapient creature in an unorthodox scientific experiment.
Originally published: 1818
Author: Mary Shelley
Page count: 280