We each of us have our stories, the
ones that could dominate our worldview, or just come up now and again, making
themselves known quietly, the urgent determination that this past sense is true
today.
It's
like this. Hold your hand up in front of your face. Now, move it closer,
closer, even more so. Pretty soon, you only see the real world through the gaps
in our fingers. Closer still, your hand dominates, and hardly any of what is
existing today is visible. Closer still? Nothing exists, but the hand.
That's the way of stories we tell ourselves. Always, at one time, they served. Always, at different times, we found solace, seeking them out, talking ourselves into the make-believe. The "once upon a time" ; the ensuing land of story.
But it is not true. And our bodies and hearts and souls in today's world are not designed to fully live in the past. We grow off kilter, the washer banging around as it tries and tries to spin .
We begin responding to events and what people say around us as if it was something else, and there's a dissonance. A developing discord, between what we are pretending from our make-believe story, and what is actually happening today.
Which results in all sorts of tangled up messes. In relationships. In our own perception of the world. And in the resulting circumstances, from our own insistent tweaking.
Some of us see ourselves as "Waiting to be Saved".
Some of us are now and again making believe that we are the "Savers", anxiously looking about at all things that might just need saving.
Which, in that funny way of telling ourselves stories, is interminable. The looking, the adherence to the story, the efforts that never gain us relief.
Stories we tell ourselves are very similar to many other things. Like OCD. Like fear and past-based anxiety. Like many judgments and rigid attitudes.
And if we engage with them enough, they are up in the morning with us, keeping pace with us, as we do our daily absolutions.
As we look out at the world, we don't see life. We simply see the hand, obscuring what truly is, closing in.
That's the way of stories we tell ourselves. Always, at one time, they served. Always, at different times, we found solace, seeking them out, talking ourselves into the make-believe. The "once upon a time" ; the ensuing land of story.
But it is not true. And our bodies and hearts and souls in today's world are not designed to fully live in the past. We grow off kilter, the washer banging around as it tries and tries to spin .
We begin responding to events and what people say around us as if it was something else, and there's a dissonance. A developing discord, between what we are pretending from our make-believe story, and what is actually happening today.
Which results in all sorts of tangled up messes. In relationships. In our own perception of the world. And in the resulting circumstances, from our own insistent tweaking.
Some of us see ourselves as "Waiting to be Saved".
Some of us are now and again making believe that we are the "Savers", anxiously looking about at all things that might just need saving.
Which, in that funny way of telling ourselves stories, is interminable. The looking, the adherence to the story, the efforts that never gain us relief.
Stories we tell ourselves are very similar to many other things. Like OCD. Like fear and past-based anxiety. Like many judgments and rigid attitudes.
And if we engage with them enough, they are up in the morning with us, keeping pace with us, as we do our daily absolutions.
As we look out at the world, we don't see life. We simply see the hand, obscuring what truly is, closing in.
No comments:
Post a Comment