Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Stories

We all tell ourselves stories. We often call them memories. Do you ever wonder how accurate they really are? How true these stories we tell ourselves really are? Are the memories we hold onto stories we've made up? Been told and simply accepted? Or, have we manipulated them and morphed them into something entirely fictional to make them fit into our boxed up feelings? Are there stories we are in denial of? Are there stories we need to let go of? Embrace? Face? Share?

Probably.

I recently saw an interview on television with Naomi and Wynona Judd and was impressed by the fact that they didn't discount Ashley Judd's story. They didn't necessarily say that they agreed with the content of daughter and sister Ashley's book, or declare that "Yes, that is what happened" either. However, Wynona made a very good point....we all experience things differently.

I share more on the internet than I ever intended when I began making my way through cyberspace. Some stories have yet to be told; deeply hidden and kept private to protect the feelings of others. I am pulled to share these stories, however painful they might be. Something tells me that they can serve and heal, help and inspire others as well as myself. Something calls me to own these stories while something else pushes me back and insists I keep them to myself.

But keeping them to myself feels like I am suffocating; buried beneath a mountain of denial. I can't breathe. In order to live my truth I must dig myself out of the mud and the muck of blame and shame; missteps and mistaeks.

Here lies the challenge. Sharing my stories in a way that honors my truth, but does not demean the truth of others. Some people can be very defensive and feel as though they're being tossed under the bus even when they haven't been. Wynona's point...we all experience things differently...reminds me of moments when I've brought about a memory and someone looks as though they have no idea what I'm talking about. It reminds me of moments when someone else recounts a memory that I have absolutely no recollection of. It reminds me that everyone; my mother, my daughter, my husband, my step kids, my friends, my family....we all have our own truth; our own stories. We all have our own perceptions, ideas and feelings about any given situation. Does this mean that my story is wrong? Does it mean that their story is wrong? Does it mean that someone is being dishonest?

No. It simply means....


We all experience the same situation or event differently.




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