Telling the Story, Dropping the Story

"Beware of the stories you read or tell; subtly, at night, beneath the waters of consciousness, they are altering your world."  ― Ben Okri 

River of Words by Tan Shu Huey

So here is the story I have been anxious to tell because I don't want to get too identified with this part of existence.  I know we all have stories, and part of me loves to tell them.  It feeds my need for connection and playing with words, the poetry of it; it also feeds my ego, something I am letting go hungrier all the time.  

I want to live beyond names, labels, and identification.  I don't want to be anything with a capital letter: Adventurer, Teacher, Victim.  

Speaking of which, I'm not.  A Teacher, I mean.  Not officially anyway, because I quit my job.

It was a decision that was made, somewhere deep inside of my body and consciousness, a long time ago.  It was a decision that I nearly spoke in June at the Principal's office, and then actually spoke in July.  It came from my heart, the only place I know to trust.

And this is the only true practice: following the heart.  I once heard that, "If you lived in your heart, you'd be home by now."  Beautiful, yes, amen.  But like every piece of wisdom I hear, I just want someone to tell me how.  

Sometimes I am such a demanding human being.  I want direction and guidance, I want decisions to be made for me, I want validation and affirmation from the universe.

Only, as soon as I quit, I didn't feel the immediate rush of relief.  Instead, I felt doubt and dread and panic.  Thanks a lot, universe.  Some help you are.

I was making myself sick just chewing on the question of quitting or not quitting, and then once I resigned all in one rush, the mind revved its engines: Did you quit to escape the feelings of indecision?  What about the kids?  You can be unhappy anywhere you go, you know.  Maybe if you go back things will change, you will change.  What did I do?  What will I do?

Other stories started.  The ones about what I would do next, and how cool I am for quitting and getting free and starting something new, or how selfish I am for leaving the kids, or how about just how utterly fucking lost I am.  But amidst the clatter and back-pedaling and stomach acid there was a steady beat that anchored me.

My own heart.

Can I just tell you something real quick?  There is something so magical about following your heart.  I highly recommend it.  Sadly there is no guarantee things get easier or anything like that, no fast-track ticket to enlightenment, but there are other perks.  Like, knowing you are following your heart.  It's good stuff.

So that's what I am doing, and I am not sure, in this moment, where it will take me.  Deeper, probably.

For now, I am back in Szeged, experiencing a strange kind of paralysis.  It is my home and not my home.  I don't love it or hate it, although I am aware that to feel one or the other might make this experience exponentially easier or more difficult. 

Kathryn unpacks while I pack, and mostly make piles of things to give away.  I don't know what I am packing for, but I have a vision, and a week or so to let the direction come.

Everything seems to be up in the air, including me, but it's cool up here, so expansive.

And the future?  I can't make out the picture entirely, but it's looking pretty bright.

Enough words and stories for now.

www.internationalrivers.org

'

I have used up all
of my river.
Nothing is left but the stones.

Oona Lyons