The wheels on the bus go round and round. The people on the bus go up and down. But, does anyone know …
WHO IS DRIVING THE BUS?
If I can lay my thoughts down on a page, placing the words just right, perhaps they will tell the story that will help me better understand who I am, and who I am not.
Last week, frustrated during meditation when I couldn’t seem to quiet my thoughts around some particular office drama, I realized when my time was up and I opened my eyes that I had simply been sitting for twenty minutes “thinking with my eyes closed!” With a deep sigh, I concluded that I was still a work in progress, alas, “a mere human” when it came to being addicted to my thoughts, stories and the act of thinking. How was this possible when I had worked so hard to remember to be present in the moment and in my body? Was I simply a “Talking Head”? As Trump would tweet, “FAKE MEDITATION…SO SAD!”
None of us were born “Talking Heads”. In the beginning, we were awakened into an altered state of reality, consciousness seemingly stuffed into a physical body. After being squished into existence through a tight dark tunnel and landing in these huge slipper hands; we were slapped on the ass and welcomed into this three dimensional mish-mash of existence we call life on Gaia. Imagine being confined in a small physical existence when we were used to soaring freely through the jungles of space and time as omnificent creator.
When we were babies, until we were around five years old, emotion was our first and only language. Since we couldn’t form thoughts without a language to support these thoughts, we floated around on a cloud of feelings from the surrounding emotional atmosphere. We had our first taste from the smorgasbord of emotion as early on as the womb. These feelings were those of our mother; but we adopted them as if they were our own. They most likely were a “mixed bag of treats” including love, excitement, anxiety, shame and/or fear. With no way to employ our own special reptilian skills for survival, we had to rely solely on these emotions to tell us when something was wrong, such as there was a lion in the bush or a prehistoric Pterodactyl circling overhead. A lot of good that would do, however, when helpless, we couldn’t even roll up in our blankets to hide from view.
Slowly, with the waning guidance and support of our friends and guardians from the other side, we got used to the giant “Talking Heads” that were all around us. Before long we learned we could wrap these big folks around our little baby fingers; and they would come running –most of the time- when we cried. Dependent, we didn’t know who they were; but they seemed to be the only ones who would arrive to help us survive in these new body-vehicles we were test-driving. On the other hand, they could cause major body damage if they dropped us or shook us to hard; not to mention they could also squash us like a bug if one of them accidentally stepped on us.
As toddlers we were off and running; motoring through life every waking hour. Each day, we connected and disconnected somewhere around three million neuro-pathways and synapses as we alternately crashed and burned our way through time and space. We were developing new skills of survival and learning what did and did not work with these new little special buses called physical bodies. When we got hurt, pooped our pants or were hungry, we cried. Hopefully, one of the “Talking Heads” would come running to our rescue. Sometimes these big people would stick their big heads in our face and cooing, put kisses on us with their big lips. They’d tickle us and then laugh when we laughed, snapping endless pictures so they’d never forget how darned cute we were in their own image. Subsequently, they also tried to convince their friends and family that we were something special by posting these pictures in cyber space for all the world to see.
Now, I like everyone else, have a very personal and selective memory of my youth. I’d like to preface the following by saying that I realize that we adopt “our story” making it absolute truth when in actuality, it is a story we created initially, oftentimes with the mind of a child, based on very little fact in deed. Whew, that was a mouth-full. Most of us then live and relive our story, creating and re-creating people and outcomes over time that will actualize what we believe to be true; that is until we can recognize our stories as just that, “a story”. At that point, walah, we may then be capable of extracting the truth from our story and alchemizing any past suffering.
Now I’m at a turning point, I can choose whether to write “The End” or I can continue to share my story in spite of the fact that I know most of it is conjecture. Although, because I started a story that like a dangling participle didn’t even make it through all of the conflict, introduce the characters, or even enjoy a climax, or resolution, I don’t feel complete. Thus, please stay tuned for Part II of Who’s Driving the Bus.
To be continued…