My last post, the lovely comments it received, and the reaction to the project I described has got me thinking much more about a few things.
Y’know, little inconsequential things – The nature of reality, the fabric of time….
I’m not even sure if I’m being facetious here (so ingrained in my character as that is, but also cos these things fall into part of the much bigger uncertainty). I mean to say – I’m content enough to use and benefit from so many things the mechanics of which are so beyond me as to be inconsequential – just the reality/time thing particularly fascinate me.
Cos it’s quite possible – quite popular – to progress through a life and not give such matters a moment’s thought.
Just daily survival can occupy so much energy, and when that isn’t so taxing we’re almost all blessed with more external distractions than we could possibly exhaust in just one lifetime. Failing that, there are usually other folks willing to make demands on our attention.
And then it’s time for sleep again.
All of which could suggest to spend time on such thinkings is a luxury, a silly trifling frippery, even a waste of ‘time’.
It’s a rare and peculiarly privileged spot in history and geography where I’ve appeared in this world, whereby simple survival has (so far, so good) been so simple, granting me enough resources for interest in any of these esoteric and abstruse mind wanderings.
I can mooch around the internet extensively, listen to opinion and mull over whether or not it makes sense to me; Twenty-first century living is an absolute breeze in comparison to just a few generations ago.
I’m living in utter luxury compared to many millions around the world right now, and I thank the universe for such blessings.
I got to think about the truth in the comment “…it takes time to get to that point of being able to write your story – and our story always changes” this got me thinking as our story develops it can be reviewed, re-examined, reinterpreted – even re-written.
Conventional wisdom previously led me to understand that as soon as something is done it becomes fixed; concreted in a newly formed part of ‘the past’. But we all know that recall is swayed by emotion, it’s fogged by time, influenced by perspective, mood, the passing of more ‘time’. Differently skewed versions of history abound, inaccuracy of memory twist and turn.
And when it comes to our own personal stories, we are our only witness – nobody else was living those days, in the company of so-and-so, in all those same places, seen from just that one point of view, encountering such-a-thing provoking that exact reaction, in that exact same way.
We’re each a compilation of uniquely assorted traits, experiences and influences. Connected and divided by the overlaps, in search of the universal, pondering the unquantifiable.
In the words of Bashar:
“…you create the past from the present, and not the other way around; the present is the only experiential time in which you ever exist. Any time you look at yourselves, it is always now; and it always will be now. It may be a different manifestation of now, but it will always be now. Therefore, you are creating from now any idea of the so-called past; you are creating from now any idea of the so-called future. It can be anything you desire it to be.
When you change the you you are now, you will then focus on the particular ideas of the past that will represent the you you are being now. Because the so-called idea of the past has many probable ways of manifesting, just as many as there are of the future. So whatever idea you are being now will determine the way you relate, and what it is you perceive to be real about your past-and about your future.” – Bashar
So as I shared last time, I took the plunge recently and took a long cool look at the years that I’ve clocked up, their contents and the influence of some of the leading characters in ‘my story’.
The reason I hadn’t done this before were multi-fold.
There was a good measure of ‘leave it behind you, it’s gone now’ with a sense that digging over ‘unchangeable truths’ could cause upset, upheaval, insoluble regret. Another voice in my head was busy preaching that such an exercise was just way too self-indulgent. So between the ‘nobody’s interested’ and the ‘hey don’t mess with it’, my story (to date) remained in a complicated tangle of misunderstood, mismanaged memory.
Turned out, the actual process of unraveling through writing was cathartic. The act of sharing was a bravery (although shared within a safe circle, it’s still raw soul offered up on a plate to be dissected by further opinion and judgment), and the results were met with warmth and kindness.
From other side of that metaphorical mountain my view has changed. I’ve dropped some degree of old habitual grouch. My light shines on.
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