Stifle Town is dread full.
Some people live there, others work there. The details don’t matter. The feelings do.
The weather is like you imagine—gloomy with enough sun to give you hope. Upon waking, the pit in your stomach whimpers “morning” (without the good). Your brain is dull like your personality’s become. Your autopilot is on autopilot.
Inspiration doesn’t strike and opportunity doesn’t knock.
The town’s frequency doesn’t match yours. The difference of one hertz hurts.
Every single person visits Stifle Town at some point. There are banks, gas stations, and bathrooms so it’s a place for taking care of business. But it’s imperative that you remember why you’re there and where you’re going. Those who forget or never enter their destination, linger until they become residents.
The trees are pretty, the people are kind, and strangers tell you they wish they lived there. That has you vacillating between fortune and guilt, making it impossible to diagnose.
Nearby, the grass is greener, the air is crisper, and the birds sing louder. You can see the exit from your window. You could get there, but the trail is overgrown. As if you’d blaze it!
Your body’s hip to the problem well before your mind. You seek treatment for the clog in your stomach, the pain in your brain, and the hours you don’t sleep. The origin evades authorities, you being one of them. “What’s wrong with me?” you ask. “Am I dying?” you wonder.
Your soul is.
Instead of treating the unhappiness, you diagnose yourself as the problem. Your broken mind plays the broken record. “Things are good. Be grateful.”
You’re bored out of your mind. In Stifle Town, boredom masquerades as self-deprecation so you shrink to fit in, staying safe (from everything but yourself).
To feel, you seek drama.
You know you don’t belong. You know it’s not right. Deep, deep, deep, deep down, you know. Depth is overrated.
Your screen saver is that Marianne Williamson quote:
“Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.”
You do it anyway. It feels so bad, it’s good. Plus, there’s no way she’s talking to you. The problem grows. You don’t.
The trick is to dance with the energy.
Stifle Town looks good on paper, like that hot Jewish doctor, but the signs are everywhere. Red flags too. Safety and Comfort, the thoroughfares in town clog with traffic. Meanwhile, Risk and Reward, the backroads, are a little wonky, but the views are epic and the fruit trees are plentiful. They’re worth the effort. You’ll see when you finally take them.
Most passports are dusty and expired there, but the highways are open and the bridges work. You can leave. Nobody stops you. It’s shocking how few do. The discomfort is so darn comfortable.
There’s a rumor that someone’s cousin leaped without a net and survived, even thrived. There are millions of books on the subject. The Stifle Town Library doesn’t stock any.
Dare you to try it. Those who venture beyond report growth, mind blows, and sensations of wow. Having done it myself, I can vouch for the community that awaits you. There are new languages, experiences, and points of view. The grass is greener, not from Miracle Grow, but from passion.
People look different, yet their frequency matches yours. Your body settles into an earthly rhythm that moves with the tides. Everything is lighter.
“Was this place here all along?” you think.
It was. It is.