I want to write. I need to. The will to do so is eking out of my fingers that are itching to get words flowing from my mind to the keyboard and on to the screen. It’s been too long; too much time reading of papers written by students and not enough time writing my own.
It is good to read the voices of others. To hear the vocabulary chosen by someone you know only as student, yet who share some of their deepest thoughts, questions and hopes. It is an exercise in listening – even as it’s done apart – physically away from the speaker. Writing gives room to mull over the sentiments and ideas expressed; space we don’t find when we are face-to-face.
Reading the work of others feeds my writing spirit and after a while, it demands something of me. Requires I stand to attention and give into the urge to be the one putting down the thoughts swirling in my mind that can flutter down into my heart, spirit and sometime, stomach.
When the wings of thought reach my tummy, they can transform into the proverbial butterflies of unknown anxieties, or, those I know too well. Those narratives of old stories I have learned since childhood: you know, the ones memorized growing up, the “old tapes” my parents would call them. The phrases that sometime echo unwittingly from my brain and move effortlessly to finally morph into the fear in my gut. The “you can’t really do this” or the “it will never happen for you” followed up by the “did you really think it could?” sentiments that play and rewind, play and rewind.
I was asked recently, if I were to write a new story for myself, what would it be? The idea was to replace the old that doesn’t work. I thought about it a lot. Again. It’s not a new concept, this rewriting my narrative that tells me who I am. In truth I have done more editing of my learned story than most: having moved from an ordained pastor to an avowed atheist who continues to find beauty and meaning in ritual, litany and spirit work. I have changed plenty. And still, I ponder the question because I find that those old routines and systems can be dogged. They come alive at moments when I am most anticipating something good: a new opportunity, a completed goal, an affirmation from an unexpected place. That’s when the terrible growling of the historic negatives rise up from the deep place of old, their ugly melody reverberating in my ears.
So I wrote it down, my new story. The one I was going to be telling with bold confidence in place of the other. It went something like this: I attract abundance. Good things happen to me. People are drawn to me. I am a powerfully positive presence. I impact whatever I do with intellect, grace and energy. I am capable, experienced and highly qualified. People want me on their team. I am strong: in body, in mind and in spirit. I am a people person. I easily build relationships. I am adventurous; risks are worth taking.
As I read back over it, my eyes moved to the writing in the upper left hand corner of the page. It said simply “New Story”. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Something was off. It wasn’t right. I knew what it was. Turning my pencil on end, I rubbed the eraser over the word “new” and wrote in bold, strong letters “MY”. My story. This is my story and it has always been my story, how I have lived and experienced the world.
The truth is I don’t need a new story. The one I have lived consistently throughout my life is more than enough. I merely need to reclaim it. Reclaim it from the realities of the world and from what honest and open living does as we grow and learn. Experiences can have the affect of altering our perception of self, of trying to replace our own voice with another, and sometimes the shouts from the surrounding world can be harsh and loud. Too often, it is the words and narratives of others who shape the story we tell ourselves about what we are capable of and how we interact. In truth, however, those can only continue as my story, if I concur.
And I do not.
My story is about an incredible woman with a rich, diverse life that has experienced the most amazing acts of human good and progress and endured the harm inflicted by the insecure, threatened and awkwardly powerful. The result is a wise, skilled, authentic woman who is all those good things of strength, capacity, brilliance, energy and charisma, wrapped in the most elegant blanket of knowledge and experience.
Waiting for affirmation of this from others is often where the old flutters turn into anxious butterflies. So don’t. Don’t wait. There is no reason for it. The trappings of societal proof that our story is real is one of the big lies we think we need to have to authenticate our story. And here is the good, FULL news: our story about who we are, how we live, what we are capable of, and how we want to offer the fullness of ourselves to the world, stand true as long as we say it does.
It does not matter if we have a twitter following the likes of Ashton Kutcher or Facebook traffic that shoot off the graphs. It does not change our story if we get the job, are invited to speak or sell thousands more books. Our story is ours to own, to claim and to live FULLY into. No. Matter. What.
That is worth writing about! Write your story. Reread it often. Listen to the words you chose to describe your power and knowledge, the discoveries you have made and the joys and hurts you have experienced. Be bold in telling it like it is: with all of what has given you the complex, complicated, beautiful, dynamic and wise person you are. Take the space your written story gives you to ponder the character you have developed in you – and Celebrate It Now!
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