The stories want out. They want to spill their truth onto the page. Everyone has a story and they all want to be heard. All the stories, that ever were, are or will be. They are witness to this experience. Yes, I see it’s an individual experience, but… we’re all having the same experience. Each life has meaning and value. It adds to the whole. The stories want out.
In the last few days, I’ve been considering that we all experience essentially the same issues. Every one of us that has lived on this planet in the past, is here now, or ever will be. The same lessons are brought to bear in every single, exquisitely faceted life.
Our geographic location does not matter. Our economic status does not matter. Our color, our religious beliefs, our gender, nor our sexual preferences. None of it matters. Ultimately, we’re each presented with the same questions.
As I drove down the road today and in my swirling reverie, I was nearly overcome with sorrow. There is so much sorrow in this world. I felt it all. All the weight of it. Oh, how can I bear it. I could fill the oceans with my tears. And I understood in that moment that I do hold it all.
Then I rose up to meet all the sweetness and loving kindness of everything, everywhere. The gift of love. I felt it all. The absolute depth of it. How can I bear this beauty? I could fill the night sky with the expansiveness of the love I feel. Can I stretch that far? How can I hold all of it? How can that be?
I am only one. And then I understood. I AM only ONE.