Filed under: Life

Insights from an old Austrian farm,
when I hit the wall of my story

Insights from an old Austrian farm, when I hit the wall of my story

The Hidden Power
of Stories

The Hidden Power of Stories

What I loved about her gathering was how she invited people who normally wouldn't mesh. There were farmers, villagers, businessmen, free spirits, the cosmopolitan chic, the intellectual, the outdoorsy, dogs, kids, and legendary grandmas who spoke without filter.
 
We began with a sunset dinner outside, where the sky seemed to melt into our glasses. We then gathered around a bonfire, where we sang songs and sent the birthday gal our wishes. Pretty soon, Austrian accordion music swept the air, inviting the feet of dancing pink and green light rays above us. Aurora Borealis decided to visit. 

We live inside stories.
 
Our personality. Our roles. Even our name. These are all stories.
 
Carl Sagan wrote: “For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love."
 
I think it's the same with stories.
 
For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through stories.
 
For me, stories are like the life-support to live in this unfathomable universe, with an origin still unknown, still expanding at the speed of light, exploding with star furnaces and nuclear fissions of magnitudes we can't even begin to wrap our heads around.
 
Without stories to guide our lives, I feel we'd be paralyzed by all the options. It would be hard to move forward, as every path would be equally valid. We wouldn't have any structure or container to hold our sense of reality. We'd be homeless, existing as tiny specks of dust with no tether to this blue dot spinning at 1,000 miles or 1,600 km/hour. 
 
Perhaps I'm wrong. From what I understand, the Buddhist sages point to enlightenment as the release of all stories. But maybe that is a story too.
 
And perhaps it's not the point.
 
The point I'm trying to make is you get to choose the story. Not only that, you get to write and revise old stories whenever you want. I think this is the great secret of living.
 
The problem arises when we live in stories that don't fit who we are anymore. 
 
We forget that we can actually write our own story. Even when we touch this fact, the sad reality is that we don't believe we can. 
 
And it's not our fault, as our system is built on compliance to just a few stories. But it is within our power to reclaim our own. I'd even argue it's our responsibility. 
 
We need people now more than ever before to re-story themselves, to live in their true home. I believe all our major planetary problems arise because we’re not living stories true to ourselves. 

This past weekend, I had the delightful chance of celebrating a dear friend's birthday at her farmhouse in Austria. She gave everything to create this regenerative farm and retreat center, spread over 75 acres of rolling forest, so it was a deep honor to experience it.  

Local village scene and the coolest hotel elevator

*warning there's a movie spoiler alert here
 
There's this movie called The Truman Show, starring Jim Carrey. I've always thought it was a genius depiction of life.
 
A man who works in the office goes skippily about his day with his brown suit, briefcase, and kakis, day after day, until something peculiar happens.
 
A big film light drops from the ceiling, shattering into pieces, revealing a tiny tear in the sky.
 
Then, he notices. Things start to look the same. The same people show up at the same places. They say the same things. The waves at the beach look carbon-copied.
 
He gets this suspicion that something has been staged. Like he's not the direct agent of his life.
 
It turns out he's right. His entire world has been staged. He's being filmed as part of a reality show, where everyone outside can watch his every action. He's living in one staged bubble, covered in one giant green screen.

The Journal

The Journal

Peeping Behind the Stage of Your Truman Show

Peeping Behind the Stage of Your Truman Show

The next morning, we met in the meditation room, where four giant gongs hung in a square. One of the farm residents was a sound healer, so he was going to treat us to his art. 

We lay on mattresses and covered our eyes with cloth. 

Bongggggggggggggggggg...
 
The gongs started reverberating. I could feel them shaking inside my body. 
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

At first, it brought up a whirr of thoughts and unfinished to-dos, as if the sound disturbed a hornet's nest in my mind. Payments due. Messages I had to answer. Unresolved insecurities. Things I had to coordinate…
 
Bonggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

Then, something deeper started to emerge.
 
The reverberations were shaking up the stories inside of me, some I thought I had let go of, but were still there. Stories like those that used to dominate my scientist self, who would never open herself up to a sound healing session like this.

Whenever the gong was struck, it was like I could enter these stories and press upon their walls. Whenever I touched their walls, a judgment or critical remark would arise. 
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggg...

This is stupid. This is hippie dippie stuff. The narrator of this story said.
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...
 
This is so embarrassing. Look at yourself lying here like this. 

Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

What would the people around you think? 
 
This is where the fruit of my meditation practice shows itself. I was able to quickly detach myself from these voices, observing them with curiosity. 
 
I was surprised by how these story fragments were still inside of me. It had been more than ten years since I broke them open. 
 

The next morning, we met in the meditation room, where four giant gongs hung in a square. One of the farm residents was a sound healer, so he was going to treat us to his art. 

We lay on mattresses and covered our eyes with cloth. 

Bonggggggggggggggggggggggggg...
 
The gongs started reverberating. I could feel them shaking inside my body. 
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

At first, it brought up a whirr of thoughts and unfinished to-dos, as if the sound disturbed a hornet's nest in my mind. Payments due. Messages I had to answer. Unresolved insecurities. Things I had to coordinate…
 
Bonggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

Then, something deeper started to emerge.
 
The reverberations were shaking up the stories inside of me, some I thought I had let go of, but were still there. Stories like those that used to dominate my scientist self, who would never open herself up to a sound healing session like this.

Whenever the gong was struck, it was like I could enter these stories and press upon their walls. Whenever I touched their walls, a judgment or critical remark would arise. 
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

This is stupid. This is hippie dippie stuff. The narrator of this story said.
 
Bongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...
 
This is so embarrassing. Look at yourself lying here like this. 

Bonggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...

What would the people around you think? 
 
This is where the fruit of my meditation practice shows itself. I was able to quickly detach myself from these voices, observing them with curiosity. 
 
I was surprised by how these story fragments were still inside of me. It had been more than ten years since I broke them open. 
 

The Hidden Power
of Stories

The Hidden Power of Stories

Things are not as they seem...

During the sound bath, it hit me that we are all living in a Truman show of sorts.
 
Stories become the containers for our lives, much like how the green-screened dome was the container for Truman's life.
 
It feels safe to stay inside the story, as outside it is unknown. This is why whenever we hit the walls of our stories, your mind will spark judgments, excuses, or thoughts from your inner critic. It's serving to protect you. It doesn't want you to leave the story.
 
Not only that, when you see others who have gone outside the wall of your story, living one that directly challenges your own, you judge them.
 
This is why I judged the guy who was playing the gong. He was representing something that directly countered my old worldview, which was a story.
 
But here’s the funny catch: judgment is a sign of interest.
 
One of my new friends said this over dinner. It rang true to me.
 
Judgment is a sign of interest.
 
Just think about that for a second. Let that really soak in. 

Truman hitting the wall of his story.