The Circle of Life

I've had what I'd called the "Writer's Curse" all my life. I try to narrate my own story, constantly. I narrate it to myself as it's happening, or I make up a story when I don't feel the current narrative is one I want to read. (The latter types of stories often fall apart when "reality", or Spirit, shows me a clearer scope into how things really are.) I often journal as if someone might read it one day, as if I'm telling the story to someone other than myself. I've never found much use for journaling just for myself, just for simple processing. I'm inclined towards storytelling. My journaling is a process, no doubt; its value is that it becomes the narrative that I'll stumble through, its outline my map that carries me through to the other side of the story. But even with maps, we lose the route sometimes; get re-routed to some new path. But it all comes full-circle, and looking back at the map I've constructed through my writing, I can make sense of the various turns I chose to take on any particular leg of my journey.

Everything is a circle.

Every once in a while, when I can check out of my own story, I'll look around in sheer awe at the stories swirling around me at any given time. That is to say, this is how I've seen people: Each fills a body that moves through its life within a set of circumstances for the purpose of fulfilling certain and unique karma. How this plays out for each person is the story of their life, and every single human has one, as well as the humans who came before that human, who made way for this one or that one to take their place. Each one has a story. Stories do not die, like most things we cannot touch.

Beyond this, each living being has a story. We humans tend to be a bit egocentric -- being the only species who has -- to our knowledge :) -- learned how to write our stories so they are translatable by others of our species. This creates in many of us a feeling like our stories are perhaps more special, more unique than those of a species whose story we cannot read, cannot hear or see in the ways we are taught that "hearing" or "seeing" means. We skim then sit atop one of a few uppermost layers like they're all that we know, so indeed they are.

We are indeed unique and magical beings -- no more or less unique and magical than grasshoppers, vaulting themselves from place to place with some somewhere-known intention in their spring; no more unique and magical than lions in the African bush hunting and feeding their young and inspiring Elton John renditions of songs that still bring can bring us to tears long after first hearing them in our angst-y adolescent years. We are no more unique and magical than foxes, or bears, or otters, or their ancestors or their young, or the cells that make up any of them -- each of these creatures holds a unique purpose and carries with it a message, a story. Its message and story tells of why and how its life came to be, and fits in perfectly. We are no more unique and magical than any other being ... Our brains just work in a way that creates for us conditions like the "Writer's Curse" -- along with a plethora of other curses: burdens humans must bear. This blog was created to share a piece of my story; I am grateful for this condition, because it's brought me to examine, ever closer, my own narrative. It is unique. Magical, even.