Recently, I had a spate of disruptions in my communications with airbnb guests. Most had to do with new guests who simply did not know how to use the site.

I, as always, watched my reaction. Perhaps because it is hot and the air quality is crappy, perhaps because I did not take my “medications” which are mostly vitamins, perhaps because I have been on slow mode lately with sitting on the deck and relaxing, I was so much less than mindful.

WTF! I thought. Three people in two hours are making mistakes and blaming me for it. One guest I grabbed at the door. “Gentle, gentle”, I said to myself. I asked to see his phone and the airbnb app.

“There,” I pointed to his thread of communication on airbnb. “There is the message I sent you.” He claimed I had not sent it.

Wow. I was just reacting. I chose to feel frustrated and blaming. I chose to ask why the hell three people were not understanding how communication works on the site in two hours.

Today as I made the beds, did laundry, cleaned the house, and tended to the garden I was calmer and more reflective.

“What were you supposed to learn?” I asked myself.

What if I am attached to my expectations that I don’t need to repeatedly explain every detail to my guests. Does any variance from that smoothly running process over the past years need to cause me to flare?

So the expectations were the problem. The people were not the problem. I was.

I know full well that most are confused and anxious at the present time. My role as a host is to look quietly at how I can be in a place of service to others who are over whelmed. And the chaotic responses have amplified in the last two years. Reservations being made, altered, cancelled, and made again seems to be the new normal.
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So I stepped back and dropped the attachment to blame, anger, expectations.

What if I cannot possibly know what else is going on in a guest’s life?

I had a reassessment of how I use the site and decided that I needed to check in every time I gave a guest information. I need to ask, “Please indicate that you have received and understand the information that I sent.”

Asking for them to validate the address, the place they are to park, that they have received the door code does not protect me from chaotic, confusion, entitled behavior. Those are what can come with dealing with the public. But at least I have not left someone feeling unsure about what they need to do.

People no longer read the agreement that they sign on facebook by checking a box. After eight years of operating an airbnb, I have seen in the last three years that a person can say proudly and loudly, “Oh I never read those agreements.”

The society has shifted. New relationships to rules, laws, authority are formulating. And my job is to not rail against the shift but rather as gracefully as possible do what I can to help others be more secure as they use the site.

The very fact that this problem came up with three different people in two hours even though I had specifically built my host page to avoid them, means I need to adjust to the system shifts.

Attachment, expecting perfection from them or from me simply doesn’t work.

The mind is like a garden and must constantly be weeded.

And as today’s guest left and said, “The problem was all my fault,” I felt so good.

In my observation, the thing which most separates us from one another is the unseen childhood wounds we carry. At our core, we feel somehow damaged, handicapped, afraid and most definitely ashamed of who we are.

So we compensate. First we numb out the initial, deeply imbedded message that we are faulty… at fault for all the negative experiences that we have experienced. We hide them like flawed, black diamonds from ourselves and from others.

” No one can see this,” we say into our alone space.

And that is where the clawing, striving, anxiety fuelled attempt at validation begins.

We are working feverishly to show others that we are special. Our power is worn in our clothing; in our facebook posts; in our manipulation of other people; in our following others who promise to anoint us as “not flawed.”

It is a Caucus Race exactly as Lewis Carrol has created for us to see. We run faster and faster on the sand platform of our lives trying to get dry. But the one thing we could do to make ourselves achieve that goal is not understood or even seen.

Stop running where the waves are washing you wet. Stop running in the circle with all of the others who have released their individuality and mindfulness.

We are fuelled by adrenalin because we are literally running for our lives. We want to dry out. We want to be free of the stinging waves of our own thoughts. But we want to follow someone, that missing parent figure or anyone who looks confident, around and around in circles.

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We judge others. We see someone who is not good enough so that we can feel good enough. We point to others who are lost in mindless, repetitive trances of consumerism and distraction in order to black out our own mirror.

When we can settle down, stop running, figure out what it is that drives our fear and anxiety, we have a place to begin.

None of us is special. No one person can escape the pain of being a human being. No one person is living life without the gaping wounds of childhood, the breath taking dullness of shame that is internalized, no one person is extra-ordinary.

All of us are busy dressing up… like children. We dress up to look bigger, more powerful. And when that doesn’t work we hide in some dark closet. The two extremes are what most try out as a mode of operation in life. And neither works.

Each of us was born with the ability to intuit, to receive messages, to see with clear vision. Each of us was born with the ability to step forward and say, “I hurt. I disappoint myself. I want to be a loving being.” Each of us has magical powers and dark remorse.

Only when we can work with our own particular scars can we get to a place wherein we can let go of the comparisons. None of us is special, or more important, of more value. The entire issue of power, reputation, financial strength grows up in a society that can no longer connect to the earth. We begin to see ourselves as “consumer items.” When we are not grounded and connected in spirit, we ask others to put a price tag on us, as if we were a factory product.

“Tell me what I am worth,” the injured soul says.

Knowing that we all are in soul school and none of us escapes without the injuries, scars and lessons of being in a human body means we can relax. Now we can relax and simply do what we have been put here to do… which is to love. It is everything.

The unusual run for the horizon to see what I can see took me to Victoria. Why Victoria? First of all, I have had the most disciplined, locked down, repetitive existence imaginable since 2016 when I travelled to Los Angeles for the Airbnb Open Conference.

My monastic, quiet and focused existence was centered around paying down my debt. That goal has been achieved and now I lift my head to see what lies beyond the island of protection that I have made my home.

Where I am now

“What next?” I simply don’t know. And like all people who have the gift of obsession, I feel adrift in a rubber life raft with no land in sight, no goal shoreline to row toward.

And so I tricked myself by saying to self, “You like gardens. Go to Butchart.”

It worked. I was able to push through a construct of the walls of possibility I had built around me to buy tickets and get two airbnb stays in Victoria. That in itself was an achievement. I blocked off days in my own business so that I could be free of myself.

The small plane lifted me up and transported me. I decided to not react to the take off and landing. Usually, I feel dread, my heart rate increases and I help the plane in its transition by not daring to breathe. This time I made the choice to keep my breathing even and allow the knowing that I am protected to wrap around me. I would not be the same self, I promised.

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There arose in me such a feeling of no self that it kept me company. I was observer. I was one who did not demand anything. A place would manifest its presence with a sign over a door and I would go in. Every day I sat in Murchies drinking tea and watching people.

Frequently, I feel like a cultural anthropologist. Who are these people? How do they live? How do they relate to one another? What is this particular tribe enacting as a social ritual? I saw groups following unspoken guidelines for behavior. A couple sat with the girl constantly stroking her boy friend. She leaned into him, on him, demanding that he not abandon her. I saw older couples married for eons who automatically behaved as a team. He got the tray, he picked out the table. Or in another case she got the tray, she picked out the table. Even one couple where she moved from table to table until she found the perfect one and he trailed along behind with the tray. All of the small decisions defining the reality that people create were observable. The rituals have results.

What I found with the observing of myself is that I need to begin again. I need to find methods of growing more gently and with more support. I picked up the book A Tribe Called Bliss by Lori Harder and read it every day on my hiatus.

Other women… other women who are observing their lives without locking into the old washing machine swirling around and around of the same old stories could help me. Other women who are focused on becoming multi-dimensional and breaking away from pre scripted lives could make me stronger.

When I returned to Kelowna, I unpacked. I loaded in the laundry and let the soiled clothing of my trip spin themselves to freshness. I swept the thousand seeds from the Maple tree off of my deck. And I mowed the ankle deep lawn. As I went about these actions, I observed that this repetition is necessary and creates order. But I also understood that I need to make room for bigger goals, bigger dreams.

I fell asleep realizing that the disruption was absolutely necessary. I had to see who I was removed from the reality I had created from my repetitive rituals these last three years. There needs to be a starting line drawn in a life. I begin.

I have taken an uncharacteristic break in the usual rhythms of my life to go on a seven day trip to Victoria, British Columbia. While it is not an exotic holiday, it is a vast disruption in the habits I have established since 2017 of just staying focused on running my airbnb, keeping my house up to standard and writing.

What I have experienced with incredible clarity is how I protect myself. My sense of direction in a new place is non-operative. I have walked sometimes 15 Kilometers a day simply trying to find a chosen experience or place. Yesterday after great success of finding and eating breakfast at John’s Cafe I circled block after block trying to find a particular store. After 90 minutes I collapsed in a park next to a fountain. There were homeless around me also collapsed in the sanctuary..

A friend texted me and said, “Where are you?”

My answer was, “I have no idea.”

And so I got the opportunity to see how I react when I am purposeless, lost with no goal. I collapse. I am aware enough to know that outside my protective mindfulness practice the crab claws of anxiety lurk.

“If I did not know how potentially upsetting this experience could be, I would be able to quickly get into the early stages of panic,” I tell myself.

But I just observe all of the drama patterns and all of the old scripts with detachment. I am not feeling panic. I am not feeling anxiety. I am feeling grateful for the experience to learn about myself.

And my protective default setting is simply to give up on myself. The best way to not be hurt or disappointed is to release the desire for that thing I am reaching out toward.
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I am lost. I can’t find it. It isn’t worth it. This feels uncomfortable.

I gave up trying to find the New Age store, the Japanese restaurant, the castle that I circled around for almost two hours. I have also given up on trying to find a mate, on dancing, on being a published author, on pushing myself through from strong and fit to amazingly strong.
I have given up on needing close friends who reach out to me without me doing the heavy lifting. The desire for intellectual stimulation in real life has been exchanged for solitary study.

And I always use positive self talk to keep myself protected.

“Look what you do have? Look what you have done? Compare yourself to others. Just be glad.”

But I am not glad that I have settled into a state of fear of challenge. I am not glad that I simply give up trying to find that particular target that is causing me frustration.

My life is best described as monastic. But even monastic orders sailed into the world and took risks. Even the most abstemious intellectuals have had the courage to move forward when the knowing was obscured

As I sat in the park with a young man singing to himself and rocking, I thought about how my urge to “go home” to those things that I know is my way of protecting myself from possible damage and certain delight.

Over head in the park, I thought a bird was flying. But as I sat quietly, I realized it was simply a kite shaped like a bird. And it wasn’t going anywhere..