Confidence is hard to find when you've gaslit yourself your whole life. Confidence to tell your truth, holding your story hidden just beneath the surface. Bravery is required to share your thoughts and experiences. I've held mine close to my chest. Judging from the comment sections on various online platforms, some people have no problem negating experiences that aren't theirs. 

Nevertheless, we don't owe each other anything but our truth. 

Sure, gatekeeping certain experiences is wise. Boundaries are good. Not everyone is trustworthy enough to hold our deepest pain. But in sharing, we allow others find their own truths, the ones we purposely bury within ourselves. 

When we share our stories, people are invited to share theirs. We are able to see each other more clearly. More fully. 

Much of history has been told without a world of people commenting and weighing in. This has had its pros and cons of course. Certain stories were purposely not shared or given space to be heard. Whole perspectives shut out and quite literally erased. But the truth has a way of finding its way out. 

Not a truth that adheres to any one group's standards. Not one that benefits any group over another. The one that is authentically yours. That others inevitably share. The truth that sets collective people groups free from the worst lies. "You don't matter", "no one sees you", "you are alone". 

The beauty of sharing is in the liberation it provides us. Our neighbors. Our fellow humans. It's a daunting but worthy cause. To share is to be seen. Maybe not by all, certainly not by those who can't allow their own humanity to be seen. The connection our stories give us to each other is the most potent form of confidence that exists. It's available to each of us, if we'll be a little brave. 

"The table seats so many", we've often been told. 

 Expansion awaits our willingness to see.

Frauds fill seats created for all. 

Exclusion, exceptions, exhaustion.

Beings are meant to be, together. 

Masks aren't welcome here.

Put your fear aside,

claim your place.

It's your birthright. 

I am an avid story connoisseur. As most self-described writers are. What I have more trouble with is story telling. Disjointed thoughts and experiences tumble around in my brain. My hands have trouble connecting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). 

Imagine your brain is a train station. Mine isn't very orderly. Tracks lead every which way. Destinations seemingly go nowhere. Routes aren't direct. 

Like most worthy endeavors in life, writing requires practice. Expectation and pressure only complicate any situation. So here I am. Showing up and practicing. 

 

Words seem to be simultaneously the most powerful knowable force and at the same time, the most flippant.

Words convey love. Hatred. Connection. Disappointment. Joy. Information. 

They are the tiny roots of the tree of life. So integral, we don't often stop to give them a thought. Or consider the full weight and responsibility they hold. 

They are free and exorbitant at the same time. 

Unlike time, words can be bought. Distorted. Falsified. Misunderstood. 

Yet, the most powerful force for healing, clarification and reunification. 

The first step when admitting addiction is acknowledgement. Most of us are addicted to the sugary sweetness of a quick word, a shot across the bow, a careless bomb thrown.

Few are the words mulled and simmered, painstakingly edited and considered to reach something inside of us. To pull us into each other and out of ourselves. 

Few are those who seek the wisdom and wellness they endow. 

 The most familiar sight, light streaming in through the windows. The most familiar feeling, thoughts stuck in my head. Trapped when the door is wide open. 

Trauma whispers many lies, chief among these is the devaluing of your own voice. Who will understand? Who will stay? Secrets perform chokeholds. 

Power is regained when you simply begin. To speak. To connect thought to voice. Uninterested in the result, only in the process. 

Habits built over decades do not fall easily. They are taken apart brick by brick. Thread by thread. Just as they are built again, into something new. Use the materials provided to create something new. Recyle. 

Begin Again

I come back to this space over and over. My own corner of the Internet which bears whatever name I see fit at the time. Always seeking to define myself. By a name, a religion, a relationship, an article of clothing.

Time and time again, nothing seems to encompass the whole of me. I've sought the past two years to uncover (as Thomas Merton and others describe) my True Self.

I've uncovered much. I've come to this space to begin again. I'm tempted to delete the past but will leave it as a reminder. Of my expansion, my growth, my renewal. I no longer see this as an end point, but another step on the road.

I don't have many answers. Many more questions in fact. I'm learning to sit in the discomfort of the unknown, as many have before me. 

It's easy to think we can search for the correct answers in the Internet. We can bow our heads before it in search of whatever we need to fill the gaping disconnectedness within ourselves. But a virtual landscape doesn't fill the longing inside of us. Typing to people sitting on another screen in another place doesn't bring us more together. Creating more content to remind us that we aren't alone doesn't make us less alone. 

Only flesh and blood can do that. Only the shedding of leaves, the scurrying up trees, the roll of water,  the windy tunnels between mountains can prove we aren't alone. A hand held, a pant leg tugged on, a shared meal with others. 

Every perspective is valuable, my own no less so. Every experience should be shared, if even only for my own "remembery" as my 7 year old says. 

I offer mine only in the pursuit of archival. In hopes that you may read my wonderings and be affirmed of yours too. 

"Pay Attention!", Everything demands, tired of being ignored.

Unnoticed by eyes too focused on the opinion of others,

passed over due to humility of nature.

Everything beacons us to place importance 

and leaves us to decipher where true value lies.

Often in disguise, demanding ownership, quick to shift the blame.

The cup holds only so much, Everything cannot fit.

Dependent upon its size, only the chosen few find privilege there.

Room for some means others are left out, awaiting rediscovery.

Rearranging is necessary for life, organization leads to clarity.

Everything in its proper place will lead to flourishing.

Forgotten tools must be dusted off and polished once again. 

Honesty begs to be crowned, if we would only make allowance. 

Everything can then morph to reveal its true self. 

Then the real work begins.