Storytelling seems to be written so deeply into us. We’ve done it for millennia, to capture knowledge and wisdom and heart. Yet stories aren’t only verbal. They’re visceral, too. They’re the lived-out stories of our days.
So what kind of story are you telling with your life?
Where might the story of you be headed right now?
(And is that where you’d like it to go?)
When you pull back from the minutiae and dialogue of the everyday, what themes seem to emerge off your pages? Are there patterns re-visited across time?
And as the author of this particular story, this particular life, what does all of that mean for you?
Let’s delve into the pages for a moment.
There’s something eerie about this image. For me, it conveys a sense of being doubly locked-in.
And it reminds me of a quote by Rabindranath Tagore, an Indian Poet:
‘The one whom I enclose with my name
is weeping in that dungeon.’
Is it possible that we sometimes unwittingly lock our identities in like this, into static fixed cells? That we cage ourselves and constrict the possibilities of who we might be or become? That we deny ourselves the freedom to keep evolving?
Who might you be, if you weren’t enclosed in your name?
Who might you find if you weren’t only looking for what you already know about yourself?
Who might actually be in there, waiting to be discovered?