I was talking to a friend recently, relaying a certain series of events that I had experienced. His reply…”that sounds biblical”. He meant, in terms of archetype. In terms of the role that I often find myself cast in with others, that it carried with it the weight of something that borders on fictional. As if I have been typecast in a literal archetypal role. Not one I choose, but one that is presented to me over and over. Not one I would ever choose. And that is the trickiest part. Trying to explain it to people in ways that they can understand the lack of choice involved. I thought recently of starting an anonymous blog. Completely just telling the straight up truth about every detail of what has come my way since the awakening experience in 2008. That story alone of the awakening is enough to field calls of “fiction!” or “couldn’t be real”. And the last 4 years since then? If I wrote it all down, in sincerity, no one would believe it. It doesn’t border on fantastical, it surpasses it altogether. So I never started the blog. Telling my story is a means through which I gain clarity for my own highest good. It is never about the other. But at the same time, when you know you are writing something that another will be reading, it alters how your story is “heard” by yourself. And if you know no one would believe you…it changes how and what you write.
That old saying goes “write about what you know”. What if what you know, if what you experience, is so far outside of what others experience as reality, that your reality must be deemed fiction?
All I can say is that for me I find myself in this very fascinating place, no stranger to me than all the other mystical things come my way, whereupon being understood has exceeded my own grasp. I find myself letting go of anyone ever really knowing how this life was lived. Almost like when you never finish writing that book about your life before you die. If you never finish it, no one will ever know. But I am in a place of realizing that even if I write about it, no one will ever know. Even if it is read, no one will know what it means. And that sounds a bit wild doesn’t it? A wee bit dramatic perhaps? How does one reconcile being a storyteller with a story that one cannot really tell? And by “tell” I mean…tell the story and have another go “I know exactly what you mean because that is my own story.”
How is it not the height of vanity or narcissism to say that this is the way things are for me? To be living a laughably mysterious, stricken, blessed existence…or to experience reality in a way that I’ve never seen anyone else experiencing it? I don’t care if I am. It doesn’t matter whether I am wrong or right about my presumption. What seems to be staring me in the face the most about it…is that for the first time in my life, I am caring very little about trying to be heard. I am, instead, dreaming of a quiet life. I am dreaming about being alone in the wilderness of people and spending time outside with my kids…and talking softly with the few clients who feel compelled to call me. I feel very much like the drum needs to be set down. Relief is there, in the resting drum.
I have a retreat coming up this week. Though many feel like things will be very busy for me with “healing work”…I have never felt less like extending into the world. I think it will be my last. I feel like diving for pearls inside the ocean of my heart now. I don’t see anything wrong with putting on “retreats”. No, not at all. But I think after this one I will dive wherever I am and if people have questions for me when I surface, I will be happy to show them where the pearls are…the ones inside of them.
A final thought for the day….”If you find yourself continuing to talk to someone who cannot hear you, then neither of you are listening.”