it's simply the story line told to ourselves for the length of a lifetime - and not even totally one of our creation. From first breath to name and further on to later years, we've inherited beliefs on who, what we are, with seldom a question otherwise. We've accepted words given from parents, teachers, clergy, and media, adding each to the make believe life of design. Sometimes they serve - mostly they confuse and almost always they go unquestioned. We repeat these stories, adding fiction of our own making to bolster our (self) appeal. Yet nothing we tell ourselves is truly real, no story illustrates reality no matter how well told. Even the ones that may prove helpful for a time fall short in any meaning they provide. Certainly we could continue with the stories, there seems to be no harm, and they do aid in navigating difficult times. Except they're never real and always limit what we truly are - which is something that can't, won't, be defined by any thought, emotion, or word. But we may know it by the absence of any of these concepts, or the space that lies between them, or the stillness that precedes it all. If we ask who, or what we are, dismissing each answer that quickly occurs and examining ideas that linger - we come to a silence, spacious truth. That's the absence of stories. It's also where we recover from all we've inherited and added as false labels to our original untouched promise. It's where we rest. Just seeing stories for stories provide us access to this ever present promise, it delivers us a ready smile and spaciousness that allows us to relax, if even for a moment, without the constant narration of our life being told by false, outdated ideals.
Of course, this too is just a story. Words. Ideas.
Question this, hold all beliefs
lightly.
Let your own truth unfold.
~
Peace,
Eric
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