Gentle Healing Year 1 Tip For Lesson 51 & 52

Whenever I am upset, it is because I am looking at the inside of my box. There isn’t a single exception to this statement. Some ideas may be drawn inside my box in bold colors, and I mistake them as important because of their boldness, but I am looking at a colored box. The box deceives me.

Some people may have a few ideas written on the inside of their boxes that are similar to some ideas I have written inside mine, and if we get together and compare what we see, we agree that we are right; but that does not change the fact that we are each looking at a limited colored box. Our boxes deceive us.

If we took our boxes off, cut them open and laid them flat on the ground so we could see everything written on them, and then we took all of the boxes on everyone’s heads and did the same, we would be amazed at the ideas and stories that colored the vision of each individual person. Instead of being angry at those who disagreed with us, we would have compassion. “Oh,” we would say, “That is why you felt that way. I see the writing on your box. I understand now.”

The writing inside my box started with a single idea scratched upon its surface. “I.” As I stared at the one idea inside my box, I bumped into someone, and another idea was scrawled inside my box. “Other.” I held something soft and pleasurable in my hands, and then felt the “other” take it from me. “Mine,” “victim” and “defend” appeared on the box. And in this way, the ideas multiplied until a complex web of ideas colored the inside of my box, all birthed out of the original idea, “I”.

This box has become its own little universe. It is filled with so many ideas, that it entertains me all day everyday and all night every night. With so much entertainment coming from the box, I have lost the sense of curiosity about the outside world. I have become so accustomed to the dark that I no longer crave the light.

With the box on my head, I see only what is scrawled upon the box. That is blindness. Because I have accepted the box as my universe, and because I have become comfortable in my own little world, whether I am happy, upset or suffering because of what is written on the box, I feel sheltered by it. I don’t know what is outside of my box, and I don’t really want to peek outside to see. To me, the known is better than the unknown. I have become accustomed to the familiar scribbles inside my box.

Common sense can see that this spell, my fascination with my box, needs to be broken. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t true. … It isn’t true. … That’s the problem. I fooled myself into thinking that the world inside my box is true, but it isn’t true. The box deceives me.