Navigating the Identity Sea

The stories we tell to ourselves; to others -- are the charts by which we navigate the waters of our lives, storms or calms, bays or open seas. They are what define us and give meaning to the events, people, situations and circumstances in our lives -- not the experiences, in and of themselves.

Aboriginal trackers are the best in the world, able to follow a man even years after he has walked through a dry desert terrain. An anthropologist asked one of these expert trackers how he did it. The tracker explained, “Oh, it’s easy. We walk with him.” He does not look for clues; he enters the time and space where the journey occurred. He knows how to walk in the same world as the event he seeks. – Mikela & Philip Tarlow

Not many of us outside the Australian Aboriginal culture have ever considered that we might be able to track anybody across a barren, dry terrain, years after they passed through, by entering into the time and space of the event. It hasn’t bteen a part of our collective or individual, stories. But -- it could be!

This is the gift of story: from the utterance of another's mouth, scrawl of their pen, tapping of their keyboard, production of a film -- if we're open to it, we can see ourselves, interpret our lives, in new, richly seasoned, deeply meaningful ways -- in contrast to the oft dry, stale, wearied stories we cycle within the loop of our private thoughts -- about who we are and what our lives mean.

Our initial interpretations and the evolving stories we tell about ourselves, as we repeat them, can be stultifying -- that is: numbing, dulling, boring and deadening -- damning us to the slow death of only half-breathing our lives; stealing our sense of self-esteem and effectiveness in living lives peppered with intrigue, curiosity, wonder and adventure. 

Or . . .  with new interpretations and unprecedented considerations, we can revision and rewrite the the stories that loop through our days and nights. Instead of just recycling the non-stop narrative running in our heads, and all the attendant "voices, fastening us to a bone-wearying sameness -- the stories of no hope of change, we can form and evolve stories that, instead, set us free--embolden and empower us, filling us with the hope of new visions and the confidence to act on them, allowing us to live lives free of historical debris, that accurately mirror what matters to us, way down deep in our souls. 

In Patrick O'Brian's novel, Master and Commander, one of the characters, addressing the art of battle, states that he never seeks to fight a person directly, but rather to undermine their confidence -- that is, the story they tell about themselves; their sense of themselves and their capabilities. 

The reason we so often get attached to our old stories, tenaciously cling to them and defend them, often with great vehemences -- is that we don't really believe that there are any new ones for us. Think again:

Have you ever tried out for a play, or a part in a film—or watched someone else give a reading? During a tryout, you can present a character in a myriad of ways: shaky bravado or powerful humility; waspish flippancy or attentive respect; sincere trust or scathing suspicion; despairing frustration or deep determination; raging disgust or ocean-vast compassion . . . just a sampling. You get to choose: you can have a different response, based on a different interpretation. Not only of the event, but of who you think you are within that.

We are NOT our stories. WE ARE the story-tellers; the choice-makers that TELL the stories and give them meaning -- infuse them with Voice. We are the interpreters of events, the ones who blow the breath of meaning into them.

And, we're the actors: we reenact our stories on a daily basis: who am I? What does it all mean? Who are the other players? What is our relationship? Where are we? Where are we going? Why?

We literally spend billions of dollars for others to create stories for us: In 2012, worldwide consumers spent $62.4 billion on movies alone, let alone TV and books!

We are all, wittingly or unwittingly, acting from scripts. What we often miss is that not only are we the writers of our life-scripts -- but that we are also the actors -- and the directors. While we may be the product of our past, we are the authors of our future. If we give ourselves PERMISSION, we can write different scripts, select or toss scripts as the director, and try out different personas and attitudes for our roles as the actors! 

It's always story-time -- from what we'll have for dinner to where we will live and how we will make our money, who the other players will be, and the nature of those relationships. 

For eons we’ve gathered at campfires and water coolers, in bars, and at afternoon teas, to share our stories -- chat them out over the phone, shout them to the Universe, whisper them into the darking of winter. 

Even now we gather at the pale blue fire in our living rooms—TV; fidget in the black velvet of a theater in exquisite anticipation of a good flick—placing our money down to be enchanted, thrilled—teased, lifted, scared or shattered into new awareness—our reticent, hopeful, mysterious spirits smoked out of hiding into something bolder and freer.

Through narrative power we can change ourselves, and our world. "In the beginning was the Word," -- and every step along the way. What will your story be?

Living By the Tides, Patterns, Rhythms, Present Tense

Living by the Tides . . . Patterns, Rhythms, Present Tense 

Each chapter of our lives has a rhythmic formula underlying out of which longer passages are developed. Finding peace and pace with these natural rhythms, the tides, within and without, is where we grow our edges into a sense of confident efficacy ,within the sea and seasons of our lives. 

On the flanks of the Olympic Mountains and bordering the saltwater are the Grandmother and Grandfather Trees, millions of them, infusing the oxygen-rich air with their exhale. Elders in their own right, their toes are in the soil of mountains that are teenagers: the Red Rocks of Sedona, AZ --buttes, pillars and mesas--the erosional remains of the southern edge of the Colorado Plateau range in age from 300 to 340 million years ago--the plateau itself, out of which the Grand Canyon is carved, 6 million years old, then this compared to Mingus Mountain,  across the Verde Valley, erupting under the sea, when  what we now know as Sedona, was at the "South Pole, 1.8 billion years ago. So, on that scale, the Olympic Mountains are teenagers, the oldest rock material ranging between 55 to 65 million years ago--which compares to Sedona' youngest rock. These 'young' Olympic Mountains have their  feet in the Straight of Juan de Fuca.  

“Despite the sea being wild and the waves rolling away from the shore, the tide always returns.” 
― Katherine McIntyre, By the Sea

Anne Morrow-Lindbergh [Wikipedia] was an acclaimed author whose books and articles spanned the genres of poetry to nonfiction, touching upon topics as diverse as youth and age, love and marriage, peace, solitude and contentment, and the role of women in the 20th century.^[ Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea is an essay-style work, taking shells on the beach for inspiration , reflecting on the lives of American women.

She writes: 

“This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy - even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide.” 

and:

“When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.”