Making up stories ...

Is part of being human but can come at a cost.

Hello Wildlings,

Spring has tentatively stepped towards Sweden. There are snowdrops in the garden and joy of joys, the first cranes have arrived. They called out as they flew over the house this morning on their way to Hornborgsjön. (Translated this means The Lake of the Tower of Horns.)

They gather there, in their 1000’s to mate before flying off in pairs and build nests together. They are perennially monogamous breeders, bonding in pairs that last the life time of the bird. When the new ones gather at the lake, they dance to attract mates, jumping up and stretching out their wings. The cranes are 1 metre - 1.30 metres tall, so their wing span can reach between 1.80 - 2.40 metres. It is primordial to witness them all together at this time.

Their cry is ancient,

It taps into our old mythic marrow.

Taps into something that has lain dormant for a long time.

Into something that suddenly stirs when you hear them.

What makes this whole phenomena even more powerful is the fact that they have been migrating here since the Bronze Age. Pictographs exist of them circling around the sun.

Those ancient humans witnessed this and felt compelled to record it somehow. We humans do the same today. The enormity of time and our connection as humans though that time, compelled me to write this.

Marking Time

Tonsured tip tilts
Towards the sun
And so spring has come
The rotation is done
And the cycle begins again

Humans congregate,
Anticipate
All lie in wait
To witness the coming of the cranes
With bronze tools they
Chip chip chip
Marking this moment
Making it stick, stick, stick.

Tonsured tip tilts
Towards the sun
And so spring has come
The rotation is done
And the cycle begins again

People congregate,
Anticipate
All lie in wait
To witness the coming of the cranes
With zoom lenses they click, click click
Marking this moment
Making it stick, stick, stick.

I reach my hand backwards, into the past
And sense that same hand on my chest
Pulling me forward

I reach my hand forward, into the future
And sense that same hand on my spine
Pulling me backward.

Time moving through me.
Me moving through time.

We are compelled to create art work, to tell stories, to paint and dance and sing, as a way of connecting.

Connecting to each other, 
To ourselves, 
To the Divine, 
To the more than human world. 
To the soil-soul and the soul-soil

The amazing art work of those ancient humans can be found as pictographs all around Sweden but especially in a place called Tanum - where I saw the image of cranes circling around the sun.

I wonder what story they are telling ….?

I relish that we are compelled to tell stories. There is a sea of research and writing out there all about this, so I will not repeat it here. However, I do want to talk about when it becomes a problem for us.

I remember reading once, that we should base our decisions on what we hope will happen rather than what we fear will happen.

What is hope, if not a story that we want to happen?

What is fear, if not a story we do not want to happen?

What stories do we tend to make up?

I know that even though I would regard myself as generally positive person, I often imagine very negative things happening. I lie in bed, trying to sleep and suddenly I am filled with such sorrow at the death of my dog, (he is a heathy 7 year old beastie and definitely not dead.) Or a fear that my husband will die and I will be forced to live alone in Sweden and have no idea of all the systems that exist and do something wrong and owe tax and not be able to pay and become homeless and …. and … and …

Some people call it catastrophising. I like to think of it as planning for all eventualities - however my body pays a cost for this planning. I can actually feel the tension increase in my muscles. I can feel my heart-beat increase. I know this amount of cortisol and adrenalin is not good. I try and exhale. I try and relax. I try and pause …

but those stories keep on creeping back.

I also have a habit of making up stories, based on what I think people are going to think about something. I may keep information from somebody because I do not think they will be able to deal with it. Or I may not ask someone for some help, as I think they are already under too much pressure. Or I may not offer advice to someone, as I think they may take it as a sign of me thinking I am superior….

Do any of you do this?

Second guess?

Make up a story?

When I do this there is something vital missing.

My gut.

I am basing everything on a possible external reaction, rather than trusting an internal instinct. Everything is based on how I think a person might react ..

Of course I understand where it comes from; any of you who came from a home where you felt ‘un-safe’ at times, where people could ‘kick-off,’ will know this need to essentially try and take control of everything so nothing bad happens.

The problem is, it doesn’t work. We have to trust that the people in our lives can hear and hold the truth. Who are we to deny them that? I am filled with so many unspoken truths. Truths I wanted to say, but prevented myself from saying because I thought it would be unkind.

God forbid I should be unkind.

Though swallowing those words and carrying them was an unkindness to myself and a lie to those whom I kept them from. Any behaviour taken to its extreme can become damaging, even kindness.

I now try to be aware of the stories I am creating in my head and carrying in my body. It is not easy but I want to love my body.

 I want my body to rest.
 I want my body to heal. 
I want those broken, fragile telomeres 
at the end of my chromosomes 
to be safe.
To grow gently like young ferns. 
I want my body to feel itself connected
to seasons
and cycles
and the call of cranes
and to hold a story of love.

I hope your body too can hold a story of love.

The cranes are calling

I must go.

With love

kx