Inch by inch

You can learn a lot from an inchworm. At least I did.

I went into October feeling antsy, dissatisfied, and easily frustrated—a bit uncomfortable in my own skin. I know these feelings. When they surface is usually when I start thinking I need to get out of town. I need a change of scenery.

I have finally learned that these feelings and the urge to escape where I am are a sign that I have hit a growth edge; that something in me is changing. My desire really isn’t to escape my physical surroundings but to escape my internal expansion. What then ensues is a spiritual tug o’ war between my ego, which is desperately trying to hold onto things the way they are, and my essential self, which is stretching to embrace something new.

During these times, after I have struggled for a bit, simultaneously resisting and pushing forward, I eventually figure out that I just need to let go. Let go of the routines, habits, and plans that have been defining my days and my path. Let go and give myself some room to grow.

Also during these times, which can last a day, a week, or even a month, I allow myself to let go of the need to do anything. I press Pause on the laundry list of tasks and projects I had planned, and I don’t allow myself to pursue any new ideas. I just let it all be for the time being. And it’s hard. Every day, at least once a day, the task master in me insists that I do something, anything resembling productive progress.

What has made the letting go easier this time was an encounter I had with an inchworm.

It was a beautiful autumn day and I was sitting against the mama Aspen in our front yard. I had closed my eyes for a couple minutes just listening to the sounds around me—the breeze rustling through the trees, the leaves hitting the ground, and the birds singing along with nature’s orchestra. When I opened my eyes and looked down, there was an inchworm making his way up my leg.

I moved the inchworm to the ground, gently placing him on one of the many leaves nearby. For several minutes I sat and watched him navigate his way, moving forward only when the rest of him had caught up with himself and always in my direction. The inchworm moved almost exclusively along the edges of the leaves, only rarely traversing across a leaf’s wide, flat surface. And when moving between leaves, he always investigated his next move before committing to it. If the gap between leaves was too big to bridge, the inchworm looked for a more manageable gap. It may still have been a stretch but the next leaf was always within reasonable reach.

As I reflected on my time with the inchworm, I was reminded that the journey is always about coming back to ourselves—the essential self. And the edges in life are the most expedient way to get there—never by taking the seemingly smooth route but by reaching across the gap and stretching just a bit into the unknown to find the next place to land within yourself. You can only move forward when the rest of you has caught up with your essential self.

And it always does … inch by inch.