It’s funny how our minds get stuck on a story.
The narratives we tell matter, especially the stories we repeat often. They combine to form the essence of how we see ourselves and those close to us, the characters in our story. We can so easily color those stories. If we tell a story with a negative spin one to many times, suddenly a trusted friend seems to be acting suspicious. If we spin it the other way, an annoying acquaintance just might have a heart of gold.
When we’re angry, we stew, tossing the perceived infractions over one another until the story really makes us simmer.
When we’re excited, we wonder and exaggerate until we’re giddy.
Lately, Miss Maya has been scared. At first, I think she enjoyed scaring herself a little with what ifs, the way some of us seek out scary stories.
But she’s told them too often. She has imagined herself choking, recycling a vision of a classmate who choked early this spring. Now she won’t eat an apple, a carrot, nearly anything crunchy or chewy. She’s on the same diet as Max.
That is but one example of the stories she is telling herself too often.
I’m trying to help her meditate daily, teaching her to unwind the threads of anxiety she weaves each day. But it is a slow process. Yet another phase that I look forward to her out growing.