We have to learn to listen to ourselves, still I recognize our stories must be told. My stories, ah my sweet stories unleashed. I've moved through my life; creating one tale after another in fact or fiction, standing in my excitement; I’ve held them close. Now I’m beginning to see I’m more than the sum of my stories? Tales have become an anecdote. I’ve discovered within my focus a catalog of verbal accountings; shifting them in order to not be just a passive consumer of my life. While expressing my tales, I’m not always a conscious observance of the qualities of balance I seek. Now life has changed while aging. My experiential vision of life has taught me: “The world is not always according to Dona” I still live and breathe a desire for a life that boggles my mind. This is my continual education of self.
I had wanted knowledge and discovery to substantiate myself. People needed to affirm my process. I thought I was in an adventure in learning, creating experiences and giving my tenacious energy to education, formally or in a practice of incidental knowledge. Speeding forward devouring whatever crossed my path. If you were important and had a title or fame I envied, I got excited. The hungry child lived within my books and self exploration. I am moving from the world of others, shifting memories to living my life within the immediate, the now. Vivacity has become a daily exercise in peacemaking. Is this my aging fear or wisdom touched by grace? Illusions of control were found in my story making, they seem to be slipping away now into memories. Confrontation with my truth waits for affirmation.
I needed my stories as if they were my drug of choice. I wouldn’t stop my inquisitions until I had understanding. Whatever was occurring within each new chapter I loved the exhibitions into my past. I became the show entertaining when possible, I took custody when I didn’t have a perception of what to do, and this was my default performance. My evasive distracting activity found understanding blocking pain while hiding feelings? I did it with great trepidation of thoughts, within intrepid experiences. Often I would over think, leading me to being paralyzed within my deliberations. If I couldn’t find an explanation, if something felt missing; my inner war began. I looked for an account to comfort myself. My exploration continued until my story ceased. Never did I realize as I began story telling for fun there would be healing occurring, healing in my past wounds.
My amusing manner wasn’t always welcomed. I now know I could have arrogances in recognizing a new truth. I had to accept that waiting existed while my process continued in its discomfort. I began learning there are no quick fixes in life. Life became my art form. Attitudes from my past kept changing, and each vivid response reflected back on my lack of self knowledge in my discomfort. I would get lost in my chronicles, while the dance with thoughts flowed only in poetry. I was carrying the legacy of the work it took to form the written word and thought to become healed.
