When you look at a from a certain altitude, everything in your life is a story. Your mind, your thoughts, your beliefs, all just stories. Just patterns of sound echoing through the substance. It’s a stance that calls us to question just what the relationship between ‘who we were’, ‘who we are’ and ‘who we want to be’ is, where we look at the nature of our Nature in a deep way. It’s the big question. The what-is-the-ego question, and everyone has their own perception.
For me, it’s about understanding that we are made of stories, that we are made from the star-stuff of legends themselves, and that every story every written in every world ever conceived is ultimately about us – about our relationship with our self, with our place and purpose within the universe, and how we regard the experience of being human. Story is the barometer, the defining-pattern for our life, for she is the context in which we understand our content. The spine and backbone of whatever role we are playing, whatever character we become along the great adventure. She, the essence of Story seen as a quality of the feminine Divine, is the essence of being human. Of having meaning, interpreted or divined.
This has a lot of significance to my work with Into the Mythica, as my lifelong devotion to the Goddess of Story in the form of Saga has always been about this very idea – that what we consider our ego, what we consider our current self and it’s story is simply made of patterns. Ripples through the ethers of consciousness that form the stage and costumes of our life. It’s the idea that the ego itself is a myth, that while it has purpose and placement within the theaters of life, it has no actual substance on its own.
I find this beautiful, for to me it implies the very basis of the journey through our embodied life, that being myth we are mythology itself. That we are every Goddess, every God, every creature of Fae and fortune, that we are the angels, the lightworkers, the worldwalkers and the wise. That we are the heroines and heroes, the villains and mentors, the creatures of mundanity and magic that populate our works and narratives. That we are both the creators and the created, a pantheon of beings embodying the very qualities of story herself in the form of our life and legend. It is the recognition that we are magic at our core, that the sculpture of starstuff in the ethers of the Creation that is our self is a thing of beauty, a romance with life itself through her paths and pathos to live the rarified story that is us.
And this is a gift. An offering that exists within the very seed of our self, that radiates the song of its intrinsic offering through its very existence. It is the process and the presence, that through the trials and the treasures that come from them we offer hints at the great mystery of being human, embodied words of wisdom that speak the language of experience to anyone close enough to hear. Such is the beauty of our story, the gift inherent in the geas that drives our life, the thing we share with others simply through being.