I've decided I need to give my monkey mind a name. He's alive and well this morning, telling me I shouldn't write because I'm probably going to run out of things to say soon, and then I will be an empty failure. That I have nothing new to add to the discussion, nothing new to give. That I should delete all my old blog posts to hide evidence of my stopping and starting.
Today he's like a pet nipping around my heels, not powerful, but annoying. I choose to hear these chattering words, to shine a light right into their beady little eyes. I want them to know that I see them, in all their ugly smallness.
After giving it some thought, I've decided to name my monkey mind Ricky Bobby. I was thinking about latin names like Javier, but I don't want to make my jumping, distractable self sound mysterious and sexy. Ricky Bobby makes me laugh. A name like that seems silly, not strong. Just a goofy little thing that doesn't know what to do with its hands, likes to go fast, and loves tiny infant baby Jesus. I can live with that.
Seeing my mind this way allows me to be a little more tolerant, a little more forgiving. I can say to Ricky Bobby, as Elizabeth Gilbert does to her monkey mind in Eat, Pray, Love, "Run out and play. Mommy's talking to God."