I was having one of those days where everything just feels off.  I couldn’t get into the groove of my day and a discomfort was growing in the pit of my stomach.

I decided that a healthy meal would help.  So I started sautéing some broccoli and mushrooms and thought pesto might go nicely with those.  So I started to rearrange items on the top shelf in the fridge in the general area where I remembered seeing the pesto last. Just as I spotted the small jar I was searching for, I realized that I pushed an open can (I have one of those nifty can openers that leaves no sharp edges and allows me to put the lid back on.) of diced tomatoes a little too close to the edge of the shelf.

I know you know what comes next.  It almost seems like slow motion: the can tipping, lid coming off, me not being able to catch it in time or in the right way. Now I have tomatoes all over the inside of the refrigerator door, on the kitchen floor, and most disturbingly, all over the containers of condiments and the gallon of milk in the door.

After the brief moment of denial wore off, a really sad, sick feeling floods my body.  I’m almost wanting to cry.  Spilt milk is one thing, but diced tomatoes?!

Here’s where I decided to try something new.  I focused on the physical feeling I was having instead of my thoughts.  I could actually feel the sensation moving and changing.  The desire to cry went away immediately.  I could breathe easily and felt almost pleasant. I finished cooking my meal.  I sat down and thoroughly enjoyed the veggies with some penne drizzled with olive oil. Consequently, I had forgotten all about the pesto.

It was a fascinating experience, one you may have to try for yourself to really understand, I suppose.  But I couldn’t help myself from analyzing it afterward.  It occurred to me, that in the past, the tears that would usually come weren’t about the mess I would have to clean up, like I previously assumed.  The tears were a response to the faint voice in my head telling me what an idiot I am for spilling a can of tomatoes in so many ways in and around my refrigerator.  “You should have been more careful.”   “What were you thinking?”  “You idiot!”  This is the voice of shame.

You may be thinking, “Who talked to you like this?”  But, you know what, it doesn’t really matter.  It’s my voice now and I can take responsibility for it.   It even brings up a bit of shame in me to even tell you about it.  According to one of my heroes, Brene Brown, sharing shame takes it away.  I’m pretty sure we all have it, with a different string of admonitions in response to a different set of circumstances. And not acknowledging the voice, and separating from it, gives it room to stay safe and sound, perfectly in place ready to give each of us a hard time the next time we make a mistake.  So give yourself a break and bypass the litany of derogatory remarks and drama. Let the feeling wash over you, too.  Know that you are not alone. It’ll be much quieter between your ears and you’ll be able to clean up the mess much faster afterward, literally and figuratively. And even get to enjoy your dinner.