a few months ago, my husband, daughter, and i got stuck in a gawker's jam during morning rush hour. as we finally got up to the edge of the traffic, we zoomed past a little fender bender, and we got a view of this 20-something guy in his business casual outfit walking up to a pretty woman, also likely in her 20s, that had just stepped out of the car that he hit.
and that's when i started spinning my own little tale of their true love. of how they awkwardly exchanged information roadside, each hoping the other would use the contact information to reach out. one of them did reach out, and eventually, years later, they married and had children of their own. the father always told his kids how running into their mother on the highway that morning was the luckiest accident of his life. and their little boy idolized his father and was warmed by the story of his parent's love, and he grew up and developed this pesky habit of ramming into attractive women on highways, hoping that one would be his true love . . .
i am a constant storyteller. i can't stop the stories. they're a reflex; the same way the leg always shoots forward when the knee is hit with a doctor's hammer in the right spot, when an experience, observation, or memory rubs against me, the storytelling reflex is off and running.
really, i love how my mind can be the most amazing tool of entertainment, how it can
weave isolated bits of information into a storyline, into a unified
picture, into something of beauty and interest. i'm compulsively entering the alternate realities created by the little stories of my mind, whether i want to or not.
but, i'm noticing how if i believe my stories, they can become walls built around my perception. whether stuck in the confines of a nightmare or fairy tale, the stories still act as these little boxes curbing my perception. like how the story that my work and family will never be in balance blinded me from seeing how many times work and family actually have been in balance. or
how the story that a person was my friend totally made me miss the knife quickly headed for my back. a story believed creates censors covering the things that don't fit within the story, and amplifiers accentuating those things that do fit within the story.
and even seeing how my own stories can imprison me, i still love them. i treasure my stories about myself, my husband, my daughter, my dogs, my friends, my childhood, my adventures. i even treasure the stories of the things that hurt me; they're the battle scars that have made me strong or wise or warped in my own special way.
the stories keep on churning, but something has changed lately: i now realize, they're all bullshit.
even stories about the immovable past change over time, as i remember a different detail and lose a few, as i change my perspective through new experiences, as i learn someone else's thoughts of the same event. the tales that i thought were real events that really happened to me have no static presence. they change and reshape a little each time they play in the mind. the villains can shift into the heroes, a member of the supporting cast can shift into a leading role, and even the whole climax and point of the story can change entirely.
these stories about my own past and the characters of my own life are not true or objective or real. they are the same thing as the little tale i weaved about those two strangers on the side of the road that morning - some root in reality that runs wild in the mind.
for the last nine months or so, my posts have often featured some of my own real-life stories. and it's been the same stories told again and again - from a different perspective, or with a different level of detail, or grouped with a different set of events. walking around and investigating these stories closely from multiple angles has shown me how hollow they really are.
and so, i have come to the realization that i'm a big fat liar. i have no idea what really happened, what will happen, or even what is happening at this very moment. no concrete knowledge of why, when, where, or how. maybe some of my stories have truth, and maybe not.
but, what freedom to see that i'm not chained to the past, to my projections of the future, or to my judgements about the present. all there really is is just a sea of ever-changing possibilities.
