Just having some fun with life stories.
Once upon a time there was a young girl named Situ who had Desires. She didn’t know what they were exactly—her Desires were just there floating around like filmy bubbles, but whenever she tried to settle for what was, she simply wanted more—more understanding, more vision, more knowledge. Situ could never seem to define the pesky Desire.
When she was very young, Desire had been easy to satisfy—at least temporarily. She fed it. She took it for walks or put it on a swing—it seemed to love to move and play. She put it to bed each night and hoped that it wouldn’t wake her up too often.
She read it stories. That did not seem like such a good idea, however. Desire became like a cotton ball—or a cloud—and only grew stronger when it learned to imagine new and different scenarios.
As Situ grew older, she tried many things to manage Desire. She tried to pop all Desires with meditation.
“I shall not want . . . “
She tried giving all Desires over to the higher power
“They will be done . . . “
She tried sex thinking maybe it was Sex and not Desire she wanted.
Oooo, oooo, ooo
She tried affirming Desire away
“Everything I need, I have . . .”
Once she even tried asking Desire directly, “WHAT do you want from me?”
Like an echo on a canyon wall, the words flew back in her face with only the slightest change in inflection.
“What do YOU want?”
Nothing seemed to work. Situ decided there must be something terribly wrong. She was talking to herself—and herself was talking back. Situ immediately went to the Yellow Pages and looked under “Help for Crazy People” to find a therapist.
The therapist was nice. She had Situ put Desire in a chair and talk to it. Situ was a bit confused—wasn’t this why she had decided to see a therapist in the first place—so that she could stop talking to herself?
Situ tried. She really did try. The therapist finally gave her some medicine and suddenly all Desire was gone. Really gone.
But Situ found herself suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and a profound feeling of loneliness. She cried all the time and thought for some weird reason that she could not go on living without Desire back in her life.
She flushed the meds.
During the next appointment with the therapist, she accidently caught a glimpse of the therapists secret room and there, sitting on a small velvet cushion, was the therapist’s hidden Desires.
Those were restless years for Situ. She went to a Shaman who told her to place her Desire a thousand years behind.
She went to a life coach who told her to place her Desire a thousand years ahead–high atop a golden Mountain—and then climb the mountain.
She went to a priest who told her to bury her Desire beneath the earth in a fiery hole.
Finally, exhausted (and broke) Situ sat in her little backyard garden. It was spring, and she saw the way the tiniest shoots sprung from the coldest roots, reaching for the warmth and light.
For lack of anything else to do, she pulled the bubble of Desire out and cradled it in her lap where she could see it. She began stroking it like a kitten, saying, “You poor hungry thing. Nothing seems to satisfy you.”
The thing actually purred.
Suddenly, as she sat there petting her purring Desires, she began to see small crystal-clear images like small picture frames floating before her eyes. When she focused on a single image it grew closer, so close that all she had to do was reach out and take it.
Yes, she thought. I will take that pretty blue house with that nice man standing beside the fence post.
And yes, I will take that room of smiling children looking up at me so shiny and bright.
And I will take the dusty road in Africa where giraffes reach high into the tree tops for their lunch.
And that . . .
And that . . .
She plucked them out of the frames of Desire and placed them close around her like delicious fruit.
Over time, she learned to be selective, asking only a few questions. Is it kind? Does it contribute something and not just consume? Does it feed my spirit and not deplete it?
It was not an easy path. She had to discard and toss many frames away. But many others gained beauty and shape as she worked them the way a potter works his clay.
And it was a good life.
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