by Doug C. Grant

"You did it again, didn't you?"

"Did what?" I asked in response to another nagging i-mail from Other-Self. These annoying messages arrive internally on a frequent and unwelcome basis.

"You said ‛No,' to a party at Johnsons'."

"Of course I said ‛No',. I hate parties with strangers."

"The Johnsons aren't strangers."

"Don't play smart with me. You know what I mean. Naturally I know Johnsons. But I seldom know people they invite."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Pull up your socks. This just opens up another opportunity for you to expand your circle of acquaintances."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to stand around making small talk. Or listen to some half-stewed egomaniac carry on about wonderful things he's accomplished and worldly trips he's taken. I can do without that sort of acquaintance, thank you very much."

From somewhere below came a sigh of exasperation. "You always seem to miss point. Let's back up and try again."

"Why do you regularly say ‛No', to parties, meetings and other social opportunities?"

"That's a stupid question. Because I don't want to go. Is that too deep for you?"

"Why don't you want to go?"

"What are we playing here? Ring around question? I don't want to go because I don't want to go. I'm not a party animal. I'm a loner. Get it?"

"Got it. You're afraid of rejection."

"I didn't say that!"

“The miracle of love comes to you in presence of uninterpreted moment. If you are mentally somewhere else, you miss real life.” —Byron Katie “You have one year to live”.

For a good part of my life I have wondered, with a fair degree of anxiety, if someone, someday would utter these terrifying words to me. In my gloomy nightmare it’s been discovered that I have an incurable disease, and my life will soon be over.

Instant grief, fear of pain and suffering, incredible sadness all come rushing into my imagination as I create a scenario in my heart about my own death. Who will love my children way I do? Will my husband find love again? How many dreams will I never see come true? What happens to me when I die?

When I blend these painful thoughts with our societal values to accomplish and succeed at life at any cost, it’s no wonder I experience stress and fear. I feel cultural treadmill constantly pushing me forward toward something. How can I die without achieving right career, perfect relationship, money, and a mission in life that will define my purpose for being alive?

I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t “do” things, have goals and live our dreams to fullest. What I am wondering about is other half of formula; what we in western world collectively condemn as frivolous and not productive. Being.