Stop Believing
We understand at least in theory that politicians may not always fact check … at least in an election year. As a social network society we often opt to believe the puppet master facts of the super PACs and not women who have been raped and abused by the system that serves to protect. There are no blurred lines when it comes to the moral high ground that we preach and teach to anyone who will listen. And no attack seems out of bound when we decide to take matters into our own hands and seek justice for one indivisible and under fraud.
Truth is we don’t know who to trust. Best we can do is clean up our own act because we are the constant in the constantly changing scenery of our life landscape. At the end of the day we have to live with our Self. The choices we make. The emotions we cultivate. And the stories we tell ourself in our waking moments and dream world.
We may be apt to question the opposing point of view and willing to Google fact storm when we want to make someone wrong. But the thoughts we tell ourself, the unquestioned beliefs about our perceived shortcomings or the seemingly unworkable situation in which we stand … we not only don’t think to challenge our conditioned mind we refute anyone that attempts to tread on the egoic Me.
My experience as a sentient being that walks the path with a pebble in my shoe, is that I have a well honed fear response. I also know that the hyperadrenergic POTS that I have causes postural anxiety and panic. And yet … when the dysautonomic flare hits like a hot iron with an electric shock that feels like a car battery discharged in my chest … sometimes all of my knowing can’t stop a conditioned mind from creating stories of doom to match the pots-storm in the moment. Even harder are those subtle changes … the creeping pain in the joints and muscles that go from almost bearable to … oh my flawed I can’t take this anymore I need help. And from there the story of not enough … can’t handle … please help me … takes the wheel and drives down a winding road of all too familiar failings.
I believe my own stories when my body is hurting. Even though I know better. Even though the storms have passed for this half century that I have more of less walked the earth. My dysfunctional autonomic system creates the perfect playground for sophistry stories. And because the narrator has such a familiar voice … I believe the fallacy hook, line and sinker. I am the catch of the day as my mind lures me into the autobiography of the soap operatic melo-me-drama.
Because, in the unquestioned moment, the dis-ease is perfect fodder for the recursive loop — I am that. “But what if it wasn’t?”, The Grinder. What if we are just acting out the script we are handed (or rehearsed). We have played this character for so long that we can no longer distinguish our true nature from the prat falls and call backs of our headliner. Reluctant to stray from the plot we add more of the same to our concept of who we are rather than inquire if we are all that. Just that. That at all.
It is an election year. Truth may well be an endangered species. But unless we start with our own unquestioned beliefs … we can never extinguish the life limiting patterns that stop us from our actual self. Because unless we STOP BELIEIVING .. the movie never ends, it goes on and on and on and on.
