I've been talking about this poem in my classes all week, and every single time it seems to land in a way that surprises people who are hearing it for the first time, and delights those who are hearing it again.
Heads nod. People smile that knowing smile.
The poem is called Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson.
Chapter 1 - I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. I’m helpless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter 2 - I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I am in the same place, but it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter 3 - I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in… It’s a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
Chapter 4 – I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
Chapter 5 – I walk down another street.
It's often shared as a metaphor for changing unhealthy habits or destructive patterns. Human beings have a remarkable ability to repeat what hurts us long after we've realized it isn't working.
Though lately, I've been hearing this poem a little differently.
Sometimes the hole in the sidewalk isn't a behavior.
Sometimes it's a thought.
That same self-critical thought or the same fearful thought.
The same old story about who we are or what we can or cannot do.
A few years ago, I noticed one of my own "holes in the sidewalk."
Whenever I was preparing to offer something new – a workshop, a retreat, a circle, a class –I would feel excited at first. I’d be inspired and giddy!
And then, almost on cue, a familiar thought would arrive.
"What if nobody signs up?"
It didn't matter how many successful retreats I’ve held or classes I'd taught. It didn't matter how much positive feedback I'd received. The thought showed up anyway.
For a time, I fell right into it.
I'd spend energy trying to predict the future. I'd replay worst-case scenarios in my mind.
The thought felt true because it was familiar.
Then I finally got it:
The problem wasn't the thought.
The problem was that I kept following it.
The thought would appear, and I would immediately walk down the same street.
Over time, through meditation and a lot of self-observation, I began to recognize the path sooner.
"Oh, here it is again."
And I’d watch my mind do what minds do - travel familiar routes.
But that moment of recognition changes everything.
· · ─ 𖦹 ─ · ·
The practice of yoga isn't to force a different thought.
It's to notice the path we're on.
To become aware enough to recognize, "Ah, here I am again."
And in that moment, a new possibility opens.
We don't have to follow every thought that appears.
We don't have to climb into every hole our minds present to us.
We can pause and witness.
And sometimes, we can walk around it.
Eventually, we may discover we're walking down an entirely different street.
Reality:
My circles are full. My workshops are full. My retreats are full.
Yet every once in a while that old thought still taps me on the shoulder.
"Are you sure?"
Cute.
I'm taking another street.