Striking, the way we receive stories differently. My favorite kind of person to dispose of: the one that thinks they know better than you about you. But really, in the telling and retelling of certain stories, I have come to reflect that there is a sense of ownership for this kind of listener. Also: a lack of accountability for the interpretation. Of course. Because it was projected onto you. To them, it is still about you. Even when their portion of a story becomes Other.
No longer yours.
Mind-boggling, isn’t it, to think of all the ways that we collide. How we can stray from what felt right. How easily we can return to ourselves, and how challenging to reset all that has sprung from what was not aligned.
We are a strange group, as humans. Born into the world reliant on one another. We spend so much of our early lives being told what to do. Realignment. We might even come to expect an external redirection before considering our own. Sometimes, that’s necessary.
The external world, providing and observing and obtruding. Sometimes, unnecessary. Being told and told and told and told and so, you hide.
And then, one day. You are reminded of who you are. Colorful fields and visions. Hands arched over rocks to feel. Hair wet, eyes still sleepy, a dress to walk down the hallway and ask to look. Find: a watch that once belonged to someone who loved you and who made you feel loved, who isn’t here in form anymore. You slide it onto your left wrist upside down and you feel your chest become light and you see that the watch has begun to tick again. You sob on your way home to the one who birthed you that you feel like you are yourself again.
Then, the watch turns to 2017. Here, now. Years. It took years. What a long and a short trip home. In which: light from ground and up above meeting in the middle
and outputting this chocolate chip, chocolate chipped version of a thing your dad used to buy for you when you were a kid.
This story is mine. And it is magic.