I did not choose to here. My story led me to you in this moment in time.

I did not choose to be what I am. My story crafted that which I am in this moment in time.

I did not choose my dreams. My story opened the way through the unknown for this now.

I did not choose healing. My story healed my achedness for this now.

 

My story leads, My story crafts,

My story opens, My story heals.

But it was and is no easy path for this little frightened bruised heart that I was , that I am.

We all have bit and parts of us that we love most; that we exhibit most; that we water most; that we beam most.

We all have bits and parts of us that we conceal most; that we blot out most; that we alter most; that we hide most.

I have them too.

"Those childhood memories; that lover who crack you open; those moments where you felt not enough; that one endless argument with your mother; those friends that walked away never once to turn back; those dark nights; those bruises; those broken bones; those unshed tears."

 

I have them too. You have them too. We have them too.

Choosing them was not a choice. Choosing that which I concealed most, blotted out most, altered most and hidden most – was not my choice.

The truth is I have spent years running and my story has spent years chasing me. We have had this one strong Chaser-Runner relationship.

She chased harder and I ran harder.  Then there came a time when I triumphed and celebrated the mastering of the runner pace, overjoyed for I had knocked off my story. A short celebration, for soon I was standing on that cliff. A mere whoosh would have tripped me off from life. That moment, I stood in knowingness that I was dying, everything within without was fading of its life.

“If we are dying, let’s die knowing that we have tried. Come what may, I will keep calling your name until you come back home to me.”, whispered my story

One Whisper, One Shiver, One Heart Beat and I took the way back home to my story.

I stopped running. A move that brought to my awareness aching muscles, cranking bones, strained pulses, shallow breaths, racing heart, blistered soles.

From then on, I would wake up every day to one story. It would be me and my story, naked intimacy, heart to heart, pains to pains, tears to tears.

Agonizing paralysis, me with that concealed most, blotted out most, altered most and hidden most of me.

And She hummed (she still does):

"How can you lead when you conceal, blot out, alter and hide from that which is you?

How can you become when you conceal, blot out, alter and hide from that which is you?

How can you dream when you conceal, blot out, alter and hide from that which is you?

How can you heal when you conceal, blot out, alter and hide from that which is you?"

A trance that would last until we would come to an embrace; until that story would reveal her beauty to my beauty; until that story would lead me to my alchemist; until that story would whisper her secrets to my secrets.

For the last seven years, I have been waking up every day to this simple process and I still do.

Not like I am done with my runner and chaser game – it still comes up. Compulsion!

But it does not last for long and I certainly do not reach that cliff anymore.

 

“We all have bits and parts of us that we conceal most; that we blot out most; that we alter most; that we hide most.

Choosing them is hardly ever a willing choice. Yet choosing them is the only way out of this agony. Choosing them is choosing you. Your story will lead, Your story will craft, Your story will open, Your story will heal. Your story will gift you with your deepest essence. You story will gift you to you. This is your way to wholeness”

#Megha_Venketasamy

Post © Megha Venketasamy, 2017. All rights reserved.

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