Story

We are creatures who by our very nature try to figure out the meaning of our life experiences. We create myth or religion (or science) to tell us where we came from and why we might exist.

From the time we are young, we are given the stories of our ancestors, we are asked to believe the day-to-day stories that our parents and teachers tell us to describe our realities (even if we don't really agree that this is what reality really looked like), and we adopt our own stories of why we are the way we are.

When we meet new people, we are asked to present our stories of who we are. If we were on a deserted island, it wouldn't take too long for us to start to disclose the deepest stories we keep about ourselves. We give each other the inspirational and the ugly, and through sharing we hope that we will be seen and understood (and therefore accepted and loved by the tribe).

While I was working with my former master, he asked me to take off the high price I had put on my memories, both the good and the bad (or perceived good and bad). He explained it like this... if I had been bitten by a dog in the past, and I labeled all dogs as horrible, then I would constantly be running from dogs now, even if they were friendly and wonderful. Conversely, if I had caught a bus at one point in time that took me somewhere wonderful, perhaps now I would constantly be trying to catch buses, even though they might now be taking me where I wouldn't like to go. All of the judgements and stories I had in my past were keeping me from seeing things as they really are in the NOW.

Let me give you an example of negative stories in my life. The first man I ever loved was someone I thought I would die without. Things were probably fairly toxic in our relationship, to be honest, but lord, did I love him like no other. There were all sorts of stated reason he gave me when he broke it off, and each one was a poison-dipped arrow that hit its intended target. It not only wounded me, but poisoned my system. I accepted the stories he showed me as evidence of why we didn't work out.

And I took all of these insecurities and wounding into my next relationship. And the poison not only affected me, but spread to my new love. It affected my self image and made me create stories about who I was (and wasn't and wasn't capable of being)which I carried with me for years and retold myself every time a new love didn't blossom.

Flash forward many years. That same man has just finished his last surgery to become a woman. And she tells me that even when we were together, she wanted to be a woman. The truth of it was, it wouldn't have mattered who I was unless I was a man and she was a woman.

All the years I suffered for my stories that weren't even true...

At this time, I am attempting to balance the two dichotomies which are 1) Not giving stories undo weight (to see truly in the Now) and, 2) To be able to create a story of myself which creates the world and the woman I want to be and propels me toward it/compels reality to create my vision.

When are our stories useful for building and when are they cages which trap us? Do we need them but we need to not get too comfortable living within their structures?

Did the three little pigs have it wrong? Should we be building our houses out of straw? Should we create shelter, but not cry when it gets blown down? Should we welcome the wolf at the door in to a nice tofu-bacon dinner instead of trying to keep him out?

When we pull the threads of a story, we see that they have threaded their way through almost every aspect of our lives. Especially the deep and old ones. The ones that were laced with suffering or unbelievable sweetness. Especially those...

I am a writer. What I do is tell stories. I try to find meaning. On one hand I realize the pointlessness and lie that is what I do. And yet... I just can't seem to help myself.