the stories we tell ourselves

I had a brilliant insight this morning that I have been a bit of a bastard to live with of late, and that the very thing that would support me is the very thing I have been avoiding. I  skipped out on twitter, stopped hanging with my peeps in the Online Meditation Crew and didn't even one time check out some of the best blogs in town - the ones that usually settle my brain and allow me to reflect on what is actually happening (e.g. this one, this one, this one, and this one and others are linked on the side of the page to the left).

So I blitzed it today. I had to drive to Sydney and back, so I listened to Pema Chodron's From Fear To Fearlessness as I went. This was good, very good. I started to remember who I was. I really heard some of the big heart questions here - and the key message was, without truly experiencing fear, I cannot understand fearlessness. I need to stop running from what is happening to me. All I have been doing is trying to pretend I could tough it out, eat a bunch of crappy food, maybe numb out a while. 

When I got home, I did housework. Cleaned the kitchen, put washing on - and then thought, screw this. I'm out of here. Tuppence the Amazing Dog of Awesomeness and I went for a walk in the bush, and I finished listening to the teaching on my ipod. As I walked I heard Pema talk about the soft spot in your heart, the wounded part of me. And how it awakens compassion. I trundled through the bush and came to a lovely gum that had come down in the windstorm. It lay felled across the track. I was gripped by sudden despair about how I would never talk to my Mum again, or see her, or touch her hand. I cried, but they were different tears. My heart was breaking, but I was letting it. It felt unfamiliar and a bit scary.

Back home again and I remembered that I had the mammoth task to sew up a blanket made of individual squares. My friends and I had knitted it for a friend who was unwell. So I sat on the floor, on my friendly zafu, the very zafu I had been ignoring, and began to sew all the squares together. As I sat there I listened to Pema Chodron's first talk The Myth of Freedom (get it for free here).  She said something that struck me so completely. She said life is a creative process. Nothing is static. Everything is change. And I thought, this trauma has undone me. How shall I write my life from now on?

Then it was time for dinner. I made vege lasagne and salad for my family, who were watching TV. Then I went back to finish the blanket. As I sat and sewed, I listened to the excellent Vincent Horn speak with with the most wonderful Rev Danny Fisher in a Buddhist Geeks podcast. I am never lonely when I can access these podcasts.

These two fellas were talking about Buddhist stories and narratives in a podcast called The Stories We Tell Ourselves. I thought to myself how Bloggers create vital new narratives. We are writing ourselves a place to belong. We are all engaged in the endless process of rewriting and recreating our own identities and selves. Nothing is fixed in the Blogging world. You can't get attached to one post - by the time you visit the blog again six new ones have been posted. And as a writer, you are always saying something new - and maybe something that contradicts the other thing you said before! Change, always change. I am glad to be a little part of that new narrative too. 

Tuppence

So now it's night. Tuppence the Amazing Dog of Awesomeness is napping near my feet. The blanket is all sewn together. Some of the washing got done, and the kitchen is somehow a mess again, but that's okay. I feel like I have spent all day with good teachers, with open heart. 

Time to start again. Or keep starting. Or actually, maybe just keep going. Or work with the fact that everything is ending? Whatever. Maybe all of these things - all at once. Maybe.