Examining Story and Truth
What lies in the depths is waiting to be explored
How much of life do we go through believing everything we think, say and do is truth? How much do we judge others because of our own viewpoints, without ever really taking into account the other person’s reality?
But reality infers truth, and most of us don’t know the depths of the truth that exists. We live, instead, in the stories. And I think most of the time we only scratch the surface.
Each of us is the sum of our experiences, but there is more to it than that.
We are the things that have happened to us.
We are the things that haven’t happened to us.
We are our parents voices.
We are the voices our parents never had.
We are the things our parents told us that we couldn’t believe.
We are the aggravating noise in the background of our lives.
We are the pain we’ve processed and worked through.
We are our unprocessed pain.
We are the way the stars were aligned on the day of our birth.
We are the places we live.
We are the places we’ve visited.
We are the people we surround ourselves with.
We are our habits.
We are the ways we nourish ourselves.
We are the way we destroy ourselves.
We are our ambitions.
We are our health.
We are so many more things that cannot be named, far more than can.
I had a meltdown yesterday. An old story, old pain, new pain on top of the old, the lack story, a nagging feeling in my gut, a feeling like I wasn’t being supported the way I thought I should be. In an instant, a great day, great weekend … stopped. I couldn’t stop myself. I could see it, but couldn’t stop. Things had to be said. Pain had to be processed. I had to be heard. I had to give voice to the pain.
It was the eve of my mom’s 70th birthday. But my mom is not celebrating here on the earthly plane.
I’ve been working through the depths of my spirit since she left. I can’t allow myself to be certain ways because of the way I’m processing her life.
I’ve been devastated, enraged, irritated, nostalgic, and enlightened. I’ve pitied myself and felt like superwoman in the same hour. I’ve felt every emotion at once, as well as feelings that can’t be described in words.
There were things my mom never said, never stood up for that I can’t let go of.
She didn’t have to die so soon, but my thinking that doesn’t bring her back. All I can do now is honor her, and say the things she couldn’t say, do the things she couldn’t do. And last week these words were spoken, words I’m still processing …
“Your mom’s story isn’t over until your life is over.”
While that sounds like truth to me, perhaps it too is a story. But it’s a story worth exploring. It’s the story that led, in part, to yesterday’s meltdown, a meltdown that may not have happened otherwise.
Whatever life I lead is a direct reflection of her. Or it’s complete opposition. She is in me as I was in her. I am me because of — and in spite of her. But …. and this is a big one …
Just because I think something doesn’t make it true. Our whole lives are one big story, or many interwoven, collective stories, depending on how you think of it.
I could philosophize all day. It doesn’t make anything true.
The best I can do, the best any of us can do is to have faith that there are bits of truth sprinkled throughout these stories we’re living — and to do the best we know how.
The collective story that I choose to believe is that we are all doing the best we know how. And for me, when I know better, I must do better.
I know I’m just touching the surface. I can’t wait to see what lies in the depths.
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