You live the story you are choosing for yourself. You have your years of fossilized stories, your shadows and your light.
You have that strange unequivocal desire to be here.
Yet, even if you are alive, and you wanted to be alive, you are astonished by the depth of your own being lost.
You can tour the earth. You can span the countries. You can wear the silk of the sea.
You can live side by side with the most passionate sunsets. You can lose your breath to the twilight red.
You can tread the earth angelically, silently, and see with a million eyes.
You can hone your nervous system to feel the heartbeat of the tiniest creature. And always find yourself amidst stories. Stories, it seems, are necessary. You have to assume one. Even not assuming a story is a story.
So, sometimes mindlessly, sometimes mindfully, you pick a story. You make it your story. Make it more of your story. Until the story and you are so enmeshed, there are no chinks in this armor. Your story is that comfort zone. The story is what becomes suffocating and pinching. You numb yourself and keep the story. The agony of the story. The loss of natural beautiful power of sensitivity. The loss of creativity which was always so natural to you. All because of the wrong story. The loss of something so essential and so deep indeed. What to do? I have nothing left to do but to peel the stories away.
Painfully and slowly, I am peeling the stories away. Slowly and slower, layer after layer, skin after skin. Sometimes I can feel sunlight saturating my labor. My labor is a simple one. I have this unimaginable being which doesn’t end inside me. I feel myself everywhere now. Connected to everything but again, I know that this is also a skill. I wouldn’t say skill if I had a better word for it. Words are another aspect of my labor. I have to develop the words. I have to learn to flex the words. I have to learn to see the words in the feeling I get when I look at the white cotton stitched into the blue of the sky, and I have to put my words on my experience of water, and I have to put the words beneath my fingers as they brush the piano, and I have to put my words inside the mysteries of life, and then, take all of my words out and arrange them up.
But as I have been flexing my words and the stories they were after, I came to realize I was flexing my life. Or more exactly, it struck me that shaping language is the mini-representation of shaping what you are. There is a certain kind of knowledge in me now. This knowledge is in you too. The knowledge is that the physicality is easily reshapeable. The change is initialized in you. But this physical change, if it’s rapid, may not last. I had to work for a long long on time on how to be with myself, provide basic things for myself, comfort myself. I am still working on it the moment I wake up. But this feeling that I have to constantly provide for myself, that I have to constantly do something, feel something, so that I see a positive dynamic, doesn’t feel like freedom. I have minimized other people’s control and now mostly do what I like and when I like it. However, I recruited myself into working on myself, all of the time, trying to find magical doors into self-improvement. If constant self-improvement is not my thing, what is my thing and what am I?
As I am peeling the stories off myself, and it’s not just one, I come to an assumption that maybe what I am is easy love. The light kind of love. The kind of love into which you soften when nothing else works – when you are tired, when you are maybe about to die. The kind of life that is surrender and that’s that.
My stories are a ton of metaphors. My stories are heavy, incredulous, incredible, judgemental, shamed, guilt-ridden, stories. My stories are numerous, and every time I peel off yet another story, I thank it, just so, I say thank you. I know that the point of the story is not in the words that story uses or the plot line it creates. The meaning of the story is in the purpose of the story. The purpose of the story is to give itself out and to give. I tell myself a story that I am judgmental when I criticize myself. Criticism is judgment. Of course it gets out of proportion. It’s a diet of criticism not a light snack now and then. If criticism is present, let’s look past all the nicknames the critic has some up with, and look into a deeper story : I am judgmental.
Is it a true story? Nobody can know for sure, no way. I used to have a maths teacher who loved to make us prove countless theorems so that we knew things were true for f****** sure, and I don’t need to prove the sufficiency of my resentment toward that practice. But now, after years and many dreams featuring that teacher, I have come to see the metaphor I’ve acquired back then. What that teacher taught me was:
Question the heck out of your assumptions!
Especially your stories about yourself.
About your life.
About your possibilities.
Question! Question! Question!