Today I awoke and realized: I am tired of stories. Especially mine, kept on hand for the inevitable questions that do not matter but require answers on forms official and in conversations social.
Still, it would be nice to know my place in the world.
But why do I settle for "nice"? This gives me a core calm, but not a deep peace. Especially when I know that "nice" derives from the Latin nescius, which means "ignorant." Only fools know their place. Only fools believe their stories.
I can re-invent myself. I know how to do this, it's the easier option. I made a start on this yesterday when I decided I will handle the IRS without paying a tax consultant. Three hours later, I had all the necessary materials in hand, confident that on one matter Rich definitely was not in error -- I have documentation to prove it! -- and the other probably was a small error, a mistype.
Or, I can pretend that I'm an enlightened being and drop the entire story of "self." I'm not widowed, I'm not married, I'm not single; I'm neither broken nor whole, free nor trapped, financially astute nor blindingly ignorant.
No amount of retreats or meditation or prayer had taken me to this place of a joyless emptiness, a prelude, I tell myself -- my story -- to living a deathless life.
But how, I do not yet know.
Candace
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