I’ll tell you something if you promise not to share. I am very selective with what I write. I know it seems that I lay it all out on the page, but I don’t show you the entire story. I don’t show you even half of what I have. You don’t have the full picture ever. I shine the light on the parts I choose because those are the parts that help me make my point, the parts I am most comfortable sharing, the parts I am able to bring out into the open without fear of feeling too incredibly exposed. But there ARE stories in those other parts, there are a lot of stories in those other parts.
Whenever I look at my first grade picture, I am sad and grateful all at the same time. I had just gotten out of the hospital after a two-week stay. You know this story. I have written on it. I had just turned six. It was that summer before my first grade year, and the five-day virus was not a virus after all. It was something called peritonitis, something that is serious and often fatal, especially when a child is not brought to the doctor in time because there is no money and no insurance. The second opinion doctor told my mother that had she waited even one or two more days, well, I would not be writing this.
But, like I said, you know this story. The story you don’t know is of the little girl in the bed next to me in that hospital room. When I look at my first grade picture, I hate it. It is not me. It is not the happy, free-spirited, smiling me. But I am glad to have it. The little girl in the bed next to me may not have a first grade picture. I don’t know. She was eleven months, maybe twelve. She came in to the emergency room with her parents. There had been a car accident. Her parents were in other rooms struggling for their own lives. Did they leave the hospital? Did they leave alive? I don’t know. What I do know is that the staff asked my mother if this little girl could come into my room so she would have someone with her, someone to nurture and care for her. My mother was with me round the clock. She never left. She also was with this child who lay with her entire tiny leg in a cast, who lay with never a visitor, family, or anyone familiar to comfort her and soothe her cries. The two who could have provided that love and care the most were very possibly no longer living. Was this little girl as lucky as I was to leave the hospital with the gift of life? I don’t know. She was still there after my mother and I packed our bags and went back home. She was still there. Alone.
You’ve read my take on soul mates. You know that I believe we have different types of soul mates, companion, karmic, and twin. You know that my understanding is that companion souls are familiar and comfortable and many and that karmic souls are those with whom we have leftover issues from past lifetimes, those from whom we are here to learn a lesson. You know also that I believe there is only one twin soul, that the twin is us in different form, that we have lived strikingly parallel lives, often choosing the same profession, the same passions, similar vacations, life partners, or spiritual ideologies. You know that from my understanding the twin is not someone we find by seeking and searching, but someone who comes to us as we begin to follow our true life paths, as we grow in mind and spirit and as we begin to reach past our own lives and give to those of others. The twin is someone with whom we are here to work for the good of humanity. It is not about us, it is about the world in its interconnectedness. It is not a love thing as many believe, but a partnership for the greater good. You know all this. I have written this before. What you don’t know is that IF such a concept exists (I am still on the metaphysical fence on this one), IF such a concept exists, I believe I have met my twin. In a way.
Through my essays you know that I am outspoken and chatty and that I live for an audience. You know that I am upbeat and positive and at home on a stage. What you don’t know is that sometimes I feel alone. Sometimes I feel so very alone. I feel alone because, as leader of the group, I am always in the front, always at point. I am never WITHIN that group. I am never a part of that group. I am surrounded by many, yes, and that makes me happy, but I am alone and that makes me sad. I see that I am alone, however, for a reason, and so I tolerate. The aloneness is a necessary part of moving the group. It is my job. It is my reason for existing. And so as I move others, I too move forward. Alone and lonely.
I’ll tell you something else if you promise not to share. I profess to write for YOU, to motivate, to move, to encourage, inspire. And I do. Mostly, though, I write because I can’t stop the words from coming out. I write because I am afraid and because I am curious and because I am overjoyed beyond belief. I write because I have stories in my head that force themselves onto paper. I write because it is therapy without having to cry in front of another. I write because it is my way of working out the issues in my world, my way of hearing my own thoughts, my way of understanding what it is that I believe. I write because I can’t make myself stop. I have tried. So while my head believes that I write for you, that my intent is to move you forward in your life, my heart knows that I write because it is who I am and what I do. My heart knows that I write for me, not for you.