The Stories of Our Lives

ballerina.istockTell me a story.

It’s early morning and all the world remains asleep, but I am awake. Isn’t that always the way it is?

The birds are full in song, the cottage cheese pancakes are made, the children slumber peacefully. Outside the window, still branches and fragrant air. Cool breezes embrace me through open windows. It’s a beautiful morning.

Tell me a story.

Make it colorful and full of characters. Make it something I can relate to. This story of my life, of your life, of the webs we spin, the roots we trip over. Tell me a good story.

Right now is livable, as if it is the only breathable moment, and I am here in perfection, yearning to stay right here forever. The meditation cushion calls. The open window, the lit candle, the poetry of morning.

My story takes me far and away, to newfound lands, to herb-spiced foods on silver plates. I remember walking along the Mediterranean shore, one city to another, my brisk pace in keeping with the sun. The waves lapped against the land and then pulled back, a tease, a dance, an effort to come close and then to jump back.

Oars in the WaterThe crystal waters sparkled under sunlight. I kept walking. I ended up in a hilly city full of stone paths, and I felt incredibly safe. At home.

Tell me a story.

Today, what stories do you have in your pockets? What is your message? Is there a moral lesson encrypted in your words?

Can you set a scene like no other, as if I am already there with you, as if I’ve been there before? Do I know this story already?

Before you made your decision, you said, let me pray about it. And somehow that gave you clarity.

Before you take a bite of your food, recite a blessing. Show gratitude. For this moment. This early morning.

This story.

IMG_6108Last night, I had the feeling that we are all so intent on our human lives, thinking we are different, evolved from the animals, and someone somewhere is laughing at us, at how seriously we take ourselves.

Tell me a story of mother’s love and a life built on trust. Tell me about the things we create. Tell me how we hold onto the words, the promises, and what happens when they fall into the abyss-like tunnel of changed-my-mind.

A true love story never ends. That’s what you told me on our anniversary. Another year gone by, another year together, another year still in love. It’s a miracle, isn’t it?

Tell me a story. A good one. Before I fall back to sleep.

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