awareness of story

Photo by Daniel H. Tong on Unsplash

Unpolished Thoughts 12/17/2018

The story I’m telling this morning is not the one I need.
What need do I have for the story of gravity?
I sense the weight in my body and tell a story which makes it heavier.

But another part of me stands to the side and listens,
And notices how the story doesn’t help.

Another story could be told,
About all the forces that lift me away from the ground.
After all, I am upright, my eyes on the horizon.

The idea of inspiring feels tiring this morning. The idea of showing my face feels unappetizing. I haven’t shaved. Dishes in the sink. Imperfections of breakfast with my daughter. Messy thoughts.

Where is this story going?

It is a story – I know that much.

There is a place inside where I chose this story. It isn’t correct to say that the story chose me, or that I am simply telling the story of what is.

The words would be meaningless to a foreigner. They were meaningless to me for the first two years of life. They are not the words that you would use to describe what I’m living through if you were living through it yourself.

I remember three reference points that always give me the possibility of creating choices.

I feel my breath, hear it, taste it, watch it form and dissipate. I recognize myself reflected in its rhythms and allow the reflection to grow.

I feel the ground below me and the places I rest upon it. I am upright, and I can sense how I lift away from this support, even as it lifts me up.

I listen to this story.

I am the author of this story. This is cause for celebration even while I recognize my responsibility.

The doldrums extend their invitation to me, but I do not have to accept. I might even choose play some joyful music to change the color of the air in this room.

I have the possibility of moving my body, vigorously or carefully – but in all cases to reconnect to my aliveness. The doldrums do not like to remind me of the miraculous chemistry of the trillions of cells inside me that faithfully get out of bed each morning and go to work.

My biology understands community without needing to be told how to cooperate.

My breath begins to tell a different story. The ground invites me to shift and find new support.

What words will I choose now?

Because I don’t know which words to choose, I only listen to the words already chosen, and ask questions.

Do these words help to fill the sails of my breath and carry me upwards? Or do they deflate me and drag me down into the earth?

It isn’t even so much the words themselves, because “I don’t know” could be the expression of pure joy just as much as it could be the banner of my surrender.

More importantly, how do I imagine these words would vibrate in my throat were I to speak them aloud? Would there be enough resonance to touch the heart of a listener, even if it was only me?

The words haven’t passed over my tongue yet, they only live in my mind, but if I imagine my voice, what tone would I use?

As I imagine, what is the quality of my imagination?

Do I only imagine in form, while actually surrendering to the story? Do I act as if the last chapter has already been written, straining to picture the worst in order to confirm I was right?

(Because sometimes I think that being right is the secret to success.)

What if, instead, I send out a signal into the infinite that stretches in all directions, and wait?

Before I do, how could I possibly know what I might set in motion?

Could I be patient enough to wait for the echo that serves me best?

Perhaps what the world returns to me  will help me to slightly adjust my coordinates before I take my next breath and my next step.

This feels better to me than the story I began with. This is where I will take my day.

My breath moves through me, mixing up the inside and the outside.

The ground lifts me up, and continuously shifts to support me as I move.

I am the author, not merely an actor reading a script.

When I take this moment to bring awareness to story, I sense that the only important constraints are the ones that I freely choose.

The rest is up to my imagination.

I choose to breathe and feel my feet on the ground. I choose to speak out loud in order to invite vibration and connection.

I choose to continue listening, and authoring this story.