Each and every one of us is a storyteller. We construct our reality of stories. Our thoughts are stories, streaming from our hearts and our minds, helping us to understand our present by journeying through the memories of our past, and linking us to our current emotions.
The trick is to become conscious of this. The trick is to realize that we can choose to tell ourselves versions of our stories that help us to create our ideal present. Then we have the ability to create our dream reality. Can we tell stories of pain with a lens of lesson, such as to allow ourselves to rid ourselves of anger? However, with the realization of our potential comes the burden of responsibility. For, as cliche as it sounds, the moment we realize that the stories we tell ourselves/others shape our reality, we cannot deny or escape the responsibility we have to the stories that we tell from that moment forward…
This can feel as much as a burden as a blessing. For example, I find myself of late rarely saying anything, or telling any stories about myself, because I am so wrapped up in the questioning of what it is that I want to say. I ask myself what stories it is that I want to share about myself and of the world, because I understand the importance and impact of stories, and who am I to know what stories the world needs to hear.
Think of the myths that you know and refer to in your daily lives, even sometimes subconsciously. Say you want to refer to your partner as a princess, or treat or be treated as a queen/king. Does this idea come from an innate desire, or does is spring from the ideal of a romantic relationship that you formed in response to watching a lot of Disney movies growing up?
I invite you to inquire into the stories that shaped you, and those that shape you now. What stories do you still tell about yourself? And why?
I am asking myself, what is it exactly that I am responsible for telling? Are any of my stories about myself even important enough to be shared with the collective? Why should I matter in the sea of what is? Do I dare take up the space and time of others and on this plane with stories? Let alone, am I spreading stories with the highest vibrations of love into the world?
I suppose all of this is the say, that there is a certain admirable impossibility of truth accessible in our stories and/or our memories. And as impossible is the access to truth through the stories we tell, it is necessary to tell them to create the present reality. So we hold a great responsibility to the stories we tell. Which makes it seems almost impossible to tell stories. Because how is a story told and held as the truth, when any memory of an event falsifies an event the moment the experience translates into a memory. And solidifying a presence into a story of words, seems to be an act of permanence that inherently betrays the fluxing nature of self, and life, and being present.