Day 357: Cooking Up A Storm

Perhaps I am at the lip of the pot. Or perhaps I'm stagnant water in the bottom of the cup. Perhaps I'm about to be kicked over and spilt. I think maybe I need to edge myself into somebody's path, or just throw myself at the sides until we tip. Maybe I could evaporate. Too slow. Maybe I could call in condensation, or put myself in to the path of a river or a cloud. A storm. Mmmm.

There was fog this morning. I cycled up over Alexandra Palace, centrepoint of beautiful views. I could only just make out the building. The trees were in soft focus. I was grateful for my lights. Coming back, just before dusk, it had all burnt off and the panorama was fully exposed. Beautiful, both. 

Isn't it funny how memory is. Good things happen all the time, but when you're focused on the things that aren't as you want them to be, you pick up all kinds of matching information. There are studies on this. In the same way, when you focus on the things that please you, so many others willingly present themselves and say 'oh, look at me, I'm like that.' Whatever you think of the 'Law of Attraction' in its formal embodiment, this makes sense. 

Experience isn't what IS, it's what we perceive. Our reality is made by the way we take it in. That's why history and news and facts are such tricksy creatures. There is weight in this. How can you choose? Some things, you KNOW. Don't you? Some things you are sure of. But what about the insignificant little bits of memory that get wrapped up in other stuff and misplaced or misremembered. Sometimes, I play the game of trying to remember what I'm wearing without looking. Sometimes, I manage it. If I touch, the texture tells me. Sometimes I revert to remembering putting them on. Often I'm right. Sometimes, I'm wrong. 

There have been stories in the news recently, haven't there, where this could be significant. And yet... And yet... The obvious case has little doubt what was happening... just many people too scared or too... something... to do anything about it. But each of those now-adults has memories. Some who were already adults at the time - witnesses or passive bystanders, worriers, carriers - each of them has memories too. And all of those memories will be informed by the filters of the person perceiving them. I'm not saying that there's no such thing as truth. Or am I? There are truths. We believe our own stories readily. Sometimes, that's a good thing and sometimes not so helpful. 

I'm grateful, often, that there is more than one way of seeing a truth. Mine's not always the best.