When Our Old Stories Hold Us Back

  She rarely makes eye contact.  Instead, she looks down at the ground.  Because the ground is safer.  Because unlike people, it expects nothing in return.  She doesn’t have to feel ashamed about her past.  The ground just accepts her for who she is right now.

As she sits at the bar next to me, she stares down at her vodka tonic, and then the ground, and then her vodka tonic.  “Most people don’t get me,” she says.  “They ask me questions like, ‘What’s your problem?’ or ‘Were you beaten as a child?’  But I never respond.  Because I don’t feel like explaining myself.  And I don’t think they really care anyway.”

Just then, a young man sits down at the bar on the opposite side of her.  He’s a little drunk, and says, “You’re pretty.  May I buy you a drink?”  She stays silent and looks back down at the ground.  After an awkward moment, he accepts the rejection, gets up, and walks away.

“Would you prefer that I leave too?” I ask.  “No,” she says without glancing upward.  “But I could use some fresh air.  You don’t have to come, but you can if you want to.”  I follow her outside and we sit on a street curb in front of the bar.

“Brrr… it’s a really chilly night!”

“Tell me about it,” she says while maintaining her usual downward gaze.  The warm vapor from her breath cuts through the cold air and bounces off of the ground in front of her.  “So why are you out here with me?  I mean, wouldn’t you rather be inside in the warmth, talking to normal people about normal things?”

“I’m out here because I want to be.  Because I’m not normal.  And look, I can see my breath, and we’re in San Diego.  That’s not normal either.  Oh, and you’re wearing Airwalk sneakers, and so am I—which may have been normal in 1994, but not anymore.”

She glances up at me and smirks, this time exhaling her breath upward into the moonlight.  “I see you’re wearing a ring.  You’re married, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply.  “My wife, Angel, is just getting off work now and heading here to meet me for dinner.”

She nods her head and then looks back at the ground. “Well, you’re off the market… and safe, I guess.  So can I tell you a story?”

“I’m listening.”

As she speaks, her emotional gaze shifts from the ground, to my eyes, to the moonlit sky, to the ground, and back to my eyes again.  This rotation continues in a loop for the duration of her story.  And every time her eyes meet mine she holds them there for a few seconds longer than she did on the previous rotation.

I don’t interject once.  I listen to every word.  And I assimilate the raw emotion present in the tone of her voice and in the depth of her eyes.

When she finishes, she says, “Well, now you know my story.  You think I’m a freak, don’t you?”

“Place your right hand on your chest,” I tell her.  She does.  “Do you feel something?” I ask.

“Yeah, I feel my heartbeat.”

“Now close your eyes, place both your hands on your face, and move them around slowly.”  She does.  “What do you feel now?” I ask.

“Well, I feel my eyes, my nose, my mouth… I feel my face.”

“That’s right,” I reply.  “But unlike you, stories don’t have heartbeats, and they don’t have faces.  Because stories are not alive—they’re not people.  They’re just stories.”

She stares into my eyes for a prolonged moment, smiles sincerely and says, “Just stories we live through.”

“Yeah…  And stories we learn from.”

 

 

 

What Life is All About

Once upon a time, there was a girl who could do anything in the world she wanted.  All she had to do was choose something and focus.  So, one day she sat down in front of a blank canvas and began to paint.  Every stroke was more perfect than the next, slowly and gracefully converging to build a flawless masterpiece.  And when she eventually finished painting, she stared proudly at her work and smiled.

It was obvious to the clouds and the stars, who were always watching over her, that she had a gift.  She was an artist.  And she knew it too.  She felt it in every fiber of her being.  But a few moments after she finished painting, she got anxious and quickly stood up.  Because she realized that while she had the ability to do anything in the world she wanted to do, she was simply spending her time moving paint around on a piece of canvas.

She felt like there was so much more in the world to see and do—so many options.  And if she ultimately decided to do something else with her life, then all the time she spent painting would be a waste.  So she glanced at her masterpiece one last time, and walked out the door into the moonlight.  And as she walked, she thought, and then she walked some more.

While she was walking, she didn’t notice the clouds and the stars in the sky who were trying to signal her, because she was preoccupied with an important decision she had to make.  She had to choose one thing to do out of all the possibilities in the world.  Should she practice medicine?  Or design buildings?  Or teach children?  She was utterly stumped.

Twenty-five years later, the girl began to cry.  Because she realized she had been walking for so long, and that over the years she had become so enamored by everything that she could do—the endless array of possibilities—that she hadn’t done anything meaningful at all.  And she learned, at last, that life isn’t about possibility—anything is possible.  Life is about making a decision—deciding to do something that moves you.

So the girl, who was no longer a girl, purchased some canvas and paint from a local craft store, drove to a nearby park, and began to paint.  One stroke gracefully led into the next just as it had so many moons ago.  And as she smiled, she continued painting through the day and into the night.  Because she had finally made a decision.  And there was still some time left to revel in the magic that life is all about.

The Unseen Race: A Lesson in Focus

While #cycling, I noticed a person about a quarter kilometer ahead of me. I could tell he was cycling a bit slower than I was, so I decided to try to catch up with him. I had about a kilometer left on the road before my turn-off. I started cycling faster and faster, gaining on him little by little with every block. After a few minutes, I was only about 100 yards behind him. Determined to overtake him, I pushed myself harder, as if I were in the final leg of the London Olympic triathlon.

Finally, I caught up with him and passed him by. Internally, I felt an immense sense of satisfaction. "I beat him," I thought, even though he didn't even know we were racing.

After passing him, I realized that I had been so focused on this impromptu competition that I missed my turn. I had gone nearly six blocks past it and had to turn around and backtrack.

This experience made me reflect on how often in life we focus on competing with others—whether co-workers, neighbors, friends, or family—trying to outdo them or prove that we are more successful or important. We spend our time and energy chasing after others and, in doing so, miss out on our own paths to our destinies.

#Moral: The problem with unhealthy competition is that it’s a never-ending cycle. There will always be someone ahead of you—someone with a better job, a nicer car, more money in the bank, more education, a prettier spouse, a more handsome partner, better-behaved children, and so on.

Embrace what life has given you: your height, weight, and personality. Dress well and wear your uniqueness proudly. You will be blessed by it. Stay focused and live a healthy life. There’s no competition in destiny. Run your own race and wish others well!