Time to burn some books!
Teaching myself to read myself so I can re-write the old stories I tell.
This summer I taught myself to read. Not regular books, but the stories I’ve been telling myself for years.
I’m trying to read every volume out loud, cover to cover, slowly sounding out each word so that it hangs in the air and I can get a good look.
I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE.
IT’S TOO LATE.
I want to see these tales for what they are: stories, instead of treating them as truth. I picture them etched on imaginary book bindings, and I pile them on a shelf in my mind – not to make an archive, but in preparation to burn them.
What is the story that has me on a ladder in my underwear at 11:30pm using a power drill to de-install the projector I mounted on the ceiling years ago? Why tonight? Why so late? Well obviously because A DAY IS WASTED AND YOU AREN’T WORTHY IF YOU DON’T GET ALL YOUR CHORES DONE.
Or the story that has me paying pricey subscriptions for work stuff that I don’t actually need, like the elite corporate version of Zoom or monthly dues for professional networking groups with acronyms for names? Oh that’s easy: PAYING FOR THINGS THAT SEEM GROWN UP MEANS YOUR BUSINESS IS REAL AND THAT YOU ARE LEGIT. Case closed.
What about the one that has me doing all the dishes and wiping down every surface before I leave the house, so I can come home to an apartment that feels bathed in order? THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN CONTROL IN THIS WORLD AND IT’S A GREAT IDEA TO DIE TRYING.
Or the one that got written in my family the moment my sobbing baby brother came home from the hospital and I (a devastated 2-year-old, former only child) promptly burst into tears? ONLY ONE BABY CAN CRY AT A TIME.
Or the one that makes me keep score in my relationships? YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE TO TAKE CARE OF YOU CORRECTLY, SO YOU SHOULD KEEP A RUNNING TALLY OF ALL THE WAYS IN WHICH THEY HAVE DISAPPOINTED YOU, OR MIGHT POSSIBLY LET YOU DOWN IN THE FUTURE, JUST TO BE SAFE.
I’m naming all these narratives so I can expose them to sunlight and disinfect them.
Also, I realized that if I don’t start to consciously author the books of rules I live by, then these books are going to write me.
It’s easy to flop yourself down into the backseat of your life and look out the window, thinking about the people who let you down, and the stuff you didn’t do, passively kicking the back of the seat in front of you as time flies by.
It’s tough to admit that you’re also the one driving.
So I’m burning these books because they don’t serve me anymore. And I’m working on writing some new ones that fit me better (which is actually a lot more fun than trying to live up to the crappy old ones).
What if we unraveled all the stories, even the ones we hold most dear? What would we see in the negative space? What if we burned the books that contain the harmful stories our society says is true? What would appear in the ashes?
When I look out at nature, there are no stories in my head because it’s not about me. Maybe I feel the breeze, or notice some colors and smells and sounds. I see a fox, a butterfly, I wonder if those chirps are birds or bugs. I think about whether sunlight has a taste.
There’s so much more to life than our stories.
Love this!