How tempting the couch is to the frightened soul.

The soul invites us to come into our own. Often the problem we have is defining "our own." Am I an artist or a writer or a teacher or a bookseller? Am I supposed to give full attention to my novel or delve into realms of art where I'm not as accomplished or should I give in to the couch of doing nothing--the place of softness that calls me and says, "It's easier here on the foam and tapestry of our cushions. You don't have to work. You don't have to try. You don't have to risk. You are safe."

Ah, how tempting the couch is to the frightened soul. How much more decadent it seems than polishing off Chapter 32 of the novel revisions. When the soul is in the recline position, when we've wrapped it in our most comfy terrycloth robe and purple pjs with stars and moons dancing on them, when we tug the chenille throw far enough over our eyes that we don't have to see the decision we've made of not doing, there is a soul burial going on.

On that couch, our spirit conforms to the shape of thinking but not doing. It's almost like having a migraine except it occurs throughout the entire body. If we move, it hurts too badly. If we act, we might succeed. If we peek from behind the chenille throw, our own light might shine too brightly. Then what would we do?

I'm going to tell the truth here. Not because of anything, but because telling the truth is the only way I know how to live. I've suffered from this soul burial disease that couching causes for fifteen years. Some refer to it as depression. Even with medical interventions, this malady is unrelenting. Some days are better than others. Sometimes the couch is the best possible option and I'm thankful for it.

I'd like to tell you that I am Betty Crocker or June Cleaver or Ms. Perfect Something, but I'm not. I struggle each day to find meaning. I struggle each day to understand why I am on this earth for this lifetime. I struggle each day to believe the gifts I have can make a difference.

And what do I struggle against? In my head, there is a heavy syrup of doubt repeating, "You're not good enough and why do you think you can make something of yourself and did you see how you taught that class last night and, really, the couch is the optimum place for you in this life, sweetie."

Yet, the soul's call is persistent. Even when one is tagged with depression or tagged with grief and sorrow or tagged with illness, the soul in its all-knowing way pulls us from the comfort of couching and onto the two feet of our own competence. The soul's call, much like the voice of doubt, is determined. It becomes then a dance or a duel of sorts between the you cans and you can'ts minding the brain's store.

Whatever the journey offers from dawn to dusk, whether it is a couch-safe day or a soul-defining one, we are striving toward a more keen listening to the soul's call. We are striving to fold the chenille throw and let it rest on the arm of the couch. We are striving to adjust to the brightness of our very own light.

copyright 2005 shelnutt