Self Editing

I've been resistant to the blog, as I've edited anything I would remotely want to say, until I no longer want to say it. I feel this pressure to be funny, and yet, sometimes life is more whimsical or serious. Today, I feel a mixture of both.
Yesterday, I posted something on Facecrack as much for me as for anyone else.

Here's what's on my mind: What is the story you are telling? Is it one of woe or hope? We tell ourselves stories about our lives, and the more we tell it, the more we live it. I vote to tell stories of grace and beauty. Stories of triumph and your own defined success. Stories of gratefulness for what you have and an open heart for what you are to receive.

That's a tough one for me to live by, and yet, I believe it to be true with all my heart. I remember going through something rather painful, and I got tired of hearing myself tell the story. I remember feeling this odd dichotomy of wanting people to know where I was, to rally around me and yet feeling like the more I told the story, the uglier I became.
There is room for grief in stories, I don't regret my grief; I don't regret its chapters in my life. But I don't want disappointment and dashed expectations to be the only chapters in my book.

I've also told stories about the way people have treated me, only to discover much later, that though at the moment it was wrong, in the fullness of time, it was right. She speaks in riddles. The point, at least for me, is to calm down. I don't need to play God all the time. Or ever. I just need to show up.
Show up for the beauty right before my eyes. Show up for the story that's still being written. What may seem challenging right now may actually be a gift later on.