there are many untold stories that wander around in the quiet moments, in this head.
when i was much younger, my father would say "you know more of the stories than anyone" "you could write my book"
what has become apparent to me over the years, and living much of that as an outsider listening in, is that those stories weren't meant for literal retelling, or naming names, or thinly disguised autobiography. Those stories became lessons and/or gratitudes for navigating this world through a set of ever changing outer circumstances, within which it appears we have little control, along with a constantly babbling inner ego which feels at times like fencing with demon addictions.
one by one, and if we are fortunate to live long enough, we can learn to see the lesson in each story with gratitude, we learn to turn dysfunction into compassion, living our life in a way that we pass that gratitude along in our story, and ripple out moments of joy, that we leave those after us with a measure of love. many times the most we can do is keep our ears open and our mouth closed.
