I can fly. Watch me!

Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, the power to retell it, rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless, because they cannot think new thoughts. Salman Rushdie

Here's my story -- and yup -- Call me crazy. Call me stubborn. Gosh, call me infantile, but I'm sticking to it. Or perhaps I should say, it's sticking to me, 'cause it seems that no matter how hard I try, the story always sticks.

I am the last child in a quartet of siblings born to an Irishman and a Frenchwoman. My father lost a case of beer and twenty-bucks 'cause I was born a girl and my mother always regretted the day of my birth -- I was supposed to come at least two minutes earlier to be born the day before on the Day of the Immaculate Conception.

That's me. A disappointment and unwanted.

At least that's the way the story was always told -- and yes -- I am the one telling the story so I always remember to laugh when I get to the part about the case of beer 'cause you know what a joke that is? Right? Don't you? I'm telling a funny story here. Anyway, I don't even like beer. You'd have thought he could at least have bet something a little more classy...

Now, here's where the story gets interesting. I'm the only one telling it and I don't remember when I heard it. I'm pretty sure I didn't make it up. I mean, why would I tell such a sad pathetic tale on myself?

So, here's what I figure happened. Somewhere, way back when before time was born, this story got sent out into the universe and spent a gazillion years spiralling through space until the day I was born. "Whew!" it sighed as it saw this gentle miracle of life come into the world. "Here's a human I can stick it to, ooops, I mean, stick to." And so, it stuck to me like dried up egg yolk to a knife. It stuck and I claimed it as mine.

Now, dried up egg yolk is irritating and so are yucky stories. But all the scraping and washing and scrubbing doesn't completely wash away the yolk if you don't wake-up in time to see the cosmic joke unfolding.

I didn't crack the egg and the story was never mine to claim as my own. Because we all know the universe was hatched from a giant cosmic egg just like the ancient Egyptians once believed -- I mean, that stories been around for centuries. How could it not be true?

'My story' became the issue yesterday when my friend MK asked me the question, "So, what's your elephant in the middle of the room?"

"I don't have one," I replied. (Pause. Take a breath. Stop breathing. Stay still. Listen closely in the vacuum created by my assertions I am free of elephants. Can you hear the shadow laughing?)

"Everyone has an elephant," he said.

"Not me," I replied confidently. "I've got a dog and a cat. No elephant."

"Perhaps you are the elephant," he replied.

Ouch! Ok. Truth time. He didn't say that. But I think I heard him think it. I'm sure I did. Because wouldn't you know it. Within a few hours that thought began to percolate in my brain and I sure as hell didn't plant it there or even crack the stupid thing open!

And that's the problem with irritating thoughts. They don't stick like dried up egg yolk. They flow like a cracked egg into a frying pan, sizzling and steaming and flowing around the pan where ever they want to go unless you reign them in and cook the heck out of them.

I think I'd like to burn this one up. Who wants to be an elephant? I'd rather be a gazelle. Or cheetah. Something sleek and fast and mysterious. But an elephant? Lumbering. Colossal. Oh, and they're got these memories that never let go.

Oh dear. There's my elephant. The thinking that never forgets to ruminate and masticate over the story I tell to remind myself why I am the way I am and why it's not me creating the problem and really, if people just listened to me they'd understand, I don't have problems. I have answers! I really really do and your life would be so much better if you just stopped and breathed and did it my way because, heck, your way obviously isn't working for you anymore.

Oh dear. There's that arrogance thing again. Me blindly leading me with answers I made up. What if ... I am the elephant. Not the 'your butt's as big as an elephant's ass' kind of elephant joke. But rather, maybe you can't see the elephant because it's actually sitting on top of you. You're under the elephant's ass and you've been looking for the problem everywhere but where it's sitting kind of joke.

Elephants are heavy. And I'm sure you know the story of how they train an elephant to never wander by chaining it's foot to a log when it's just a wee lass and then as it grows, replacing the chain with a thin rope that it doesn't believe it can break and is never willing to test the theory of relativity against because it knows, without a doubt, that the rope is stronger than it.

Time to break the rope. Time to crack the code of the story I tell on myself. It may be a sticky story, or not. Doesn't really matter what the consistency of the story is if it's keeping me tethered to the belief -- I am a disappointment. I am unwanted.

Anyway, there comes a time when every good woman (and man) must free herself of the story that keeps her living small, living under the disbelief she cannot fly.

I can fly.

Watch me!

PS. But first, I'm off to fry me up some eggs and maybe even burn the heck out of some toast...

Nameste.

PPS: The question is: Where's the elephant in your life?