My Story/Your Story
The only thing I have is my story, which is all any of us have at the end. But our stories aren't ours. Not really. They belong to the world that wrote them, and the people who participated in their making.
Mine navigates a life long conflict between the early, intrinsic experience of myself, and the external provision placed upon me to deny it, or be denied love.
Serendipitously, unanticipated events arose that resulted in the people who held love out as a bargaining chip to abandon me, and for the first time in my life I can try to be authentic. I can make an attempt to engage in life meaningfully, and purposefully, without fear of my family leaving, because they just did. All of them. Brother, sister, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, in-laws, first cousins, second cousins, and even those waiting to be born to them.
And they did it just in time for me to embrace the year I'm projected to die.
Off You Go...
You see, I’m one of those who believes that if you’re here, you’re meant to be.
You’ve been entrusted to perform a specific act, or utilize a unique gift, that’s important to the world. It's important in a way no one can know, but has to trust. Nature doesn't give anything away for free, and she’s not gratuitous about even the smallest detail. She's not going to make an extra human just for the hell of it.
The opportunity to Live your life comes with an agreement made before it began. The only person who knows what your purpose is, or your gift, is You. You have an obligation to cultivate, and root it, before you die. The part we play is part of a larger sequence. During our time, we determine whether it continues to evolve, or ends.
The features, and complexion, of what you carry is
most prominent in childhood. The essence of it, is the essence of you. If you buried it, or had to discard it, or simply ignored it, a portion of your life remains unfulfilled. I’m in that category.
Here I Come...
The objective of this blog is to be courageously expressive. The struggles I endured in my life, also served as the assessments that clarified its meaning. The people who dismantled me influenced the timing of each exit I made.
Each exit led to a path I hadn't considered, and each path led to healing something broken. Perhaps you know what I mean.
This blog is not an effort at popularity, or attention, or accolade.
- It’s part of the contract I made to tell my truth, and trust the words to do the rest.
You see, I've never done the one thing I have no doubt I can do: write. I'm doing it now because I understand how it works:The words I write, or speak, were never meant to serve me. They're meant for someone who needs them, someone going through the things I did. That's their beauty.
They're easy to give away.They're easy to detach from, and move on.
I appreciate when people praise what I write, but I appreciate more that I'm doing it.I don't have to know who they helped, or how. In fact, I'm sure I won't.
I'm certain of this only:Grace comes from the act, and then separation from it.
The words entrusted to germinate in me know who they were born to find, I don't.
I know because words from strangers found their way to me, just as you've been found by those that were sent to look for you.
Discovering that I can be a part of it makes me grateful.
I'm proud of the wounds I was asked to carry, and thankful for the opportunity to heal them.
I know I'm lucky to be alive.
