I teach “ease” but sometimes I make my life rather complicated. I suffer from “good girl syndrome.” I don’t know where it started but I suspect it was those early years of trying so hard to do everything right. In my home there were “consequences” for getting it wrong. Add to that, Catholic guilt. Yes, if you were a bad girl you had to endure further humiliation when you confessed your “sins” to the shadow who doled out your penance behind the musty confessional curtain.

Three ‘Our Fathers’ and three ‘Hail Marys’.

My sins must not have been that great if that’s the only penance I received. I imagine my older sister (the rebel) was saying an entire rosary while I dutifully recited my six prayers, images of purgatory baffling my tender young psyche.

I know there are great benefits inherent in embodying the good girl archetype. Good girls make excellent teachers, counselors, care takers. Good girls follow through. You can count on us. Yet, for me, the good girl gets tangled in trying to please everyone else at the expense of my own serenity. The good girl gets tangled in expectation. Sometimes I expect others to be just as responsible, engaged and present as me and we all know where that leads. Expectation, a down payment on disappointment.

I recently returned from a lovely retreat in the Hudson River Valley. Creative Joy with one of my favorite colleagues, Jen Louden. On the very first night of the retreat she gave us permission to NOT attend the sessions. To follow our desires wherever they led us.

NOT attend the sessions? Seriously? The good girl wouldn’t think of missing a session. She might have to confess that to her inner priest.

But I’m a good girl. I follow directions. I tried it. The first morning I slept right through the morning dance class AND the morning meditation AND a good part of the breakfast hour. I found myself scurrying into the dining hall dropping cornmeal scones onto my plate while munching on a banana and looking for anything else that was portable.

Yes, ME, the “eat only what you can savor” gal.

The “well-nourished woman” gulping down her breakfast saying sheepishly, “I overslept.” Even though I purposely left the iPhone alarm off to follow my body rhythm into the morning. Old habits die hard. Not the sleep, the apology. How many times do we apologize for giving our bodies exactly what they need? Sleep. Oh so delicious, remarkably restorative sleep.

I took this desire thing a step further. On the second day of the retreat I skipped the yoga class. This was REALLY hard. I didn’t want to disappoint Marianne, my beloved yoga teacher. In my mind I saw her taking “attendance.” No matter how many times these beautiful women said, “Follow your desire. All weekend,” I found myself feeling guilty for doing just that. Yes, I teach this stuff, and I am humbled by my own learning curve. After all, I need to get this right.

I skipped yoga to follow my desire straight to the farmers market. I have to admit that I find more pleasure romping through a farmers market than just about anything else in my world.

I was mesmerized by the display of color that greeted me there. Vibrant vegetables against a backdrop of fiery leaves and cool, crisp Hudson River Valley air. A story teller entertaining the wee ones while their parents shopped, unencumbered. Something so simple, yet so lovely. There I was swaying like a tree with the little ones, the tallest listener for sure, but no less enchanted.

I abandoned the word apology. There I was cultivating my inner rascal in the company of two women I had only just met, but with whom I shared a deep kinship I can’t quite explain. Maybe because we were all playing hookie together, eating pumpkin pie with our fingers and watching the light dance across the trees and over the river. Bliss.

I sent my husband a text. It said, “Playing hookie. Check it out. Pumpkin pie!” He replied, “Why are you PAYING to play hookie?” I felt my old friend shame emerge from somewhere deep inside my psyche. Then, I looked at my companions

and the pie

and the river

and the glorious display of color in front of me and I replied, “I’m following my desire.” And in that moment, I embodied the word PERMISSION.