Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Relief From My Story: Part One

The more I look around at the human condition, the more I am confronted by one undeniable reality. We, the people, are maniacal meaning-making machines—our lust to create meaning knows no bounds.
Especially when it comes to our lives—we simply can’t keep our hands off our story. Nor are we meant to. It is perhaps our purest universal experience—the desire to shape and examine and redirect each moment of our experience so it fits into our narrative of what SHOULD (or shouldn’t) be happening.
If you don’t believe me, just think back upon your day and start separating what actually happened (the facts) from your story about what happened (your interpretation). Go ahead. I’ll wait.
See what I mean?
When our story’s going great, and we’re living up to the heroic role we’ve purposefully created for ourselves, this feels amazing. But what about when we become victims of our own experience, victims of our own creation, of our own stories?

There’s a wonderful example of this in the recent Disney remake of Tron. Jeff Bridges plays a man named Flynn, who has tapped into this holographic matrix alternate reality called the Grid—a dayglo Sharper Image kind of place where people have laser motorcycle duels in neat fluorescent colors. But because he cannot be in this alternate universe all the time, he creates a virtual doppelganger named Clue to run the show in his place. All is well until Clue gets some ideas of his own and challenges Flynn’s authority.
Other characters question Flynn’s decisions first to fight with Clue and then to hide from him (in a minimalistic ashram that’s somehow “Off the Grid,” but, whatever). “Isn’t he the one that created Clue as a program?” asks Flynn’s son. “Why doesn’t he just delete or redesign him? How can he be so afraid of his own creation?”
Most of us are like Flynn most of the time. We create our story, including plot, setting, and characters (just for fun, picture yourself as Central Casting Agent for your life. Do you notice any patterns in the actors who surround you and show up for auditions to be in your movie?)
Then we get creeped out by some aspect of our creation: “My job sucks, my spouse isn’t sexy, my children hate me, I never get any respect, something’s wrong with my body.” And then we get stuck in the very seductive delusion that we are powerless to re-write the program to enjoy a very different outcome—“Nope, that’s it. Even though it sucks, somehow I created it like this and this is how it’s gonna stay!”
Wise friends could be telling you that you have the power to change any aspect of this story that doesn’t please you. And if you’ve been around the metaphysical block a couple of times, your inner monologue might sound something like mine when I get in this resistant state:
“I know, but I caaaan’t. I just feel so hopeless about this and you are now annoying the CRAP out of me. I don’t care about Law of Attraction. And I am now also annoyed with God, and especially with the Universe. Please don’t talk to me about the Universe and how rich and abundant and healthy and happy it is because I really don’t care. Who cares about the Universe’s stuff? What about Me? Where’s my stuff?”
This is when I know it is time for relief from my story. The fastest way to achieve this, for me, is to unplug for a few moments. If you are currently suffering from Story Overload, this might be a good plan for you, too. We’ll talk more about this in Part 2 of this segment. Bur for now, know that all you need to do is just reach back there and unplug your brain.

Ahhhhhhh! Doesn’t that feel good? If you truly unplugged, all you’re up for, right about now, is playing with your dog, your child’s Legos, your remote control and/or the cast of Jersey Shore. You have entered the blank zone of Being and Nothingness. The perfect place to rest (and reset your programs) before you begin to create again.
Written by: Ellen Melko Moore

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