I had a post written for today. I wrote it partly on Wednesday night, and partly in the very early hours of Thursday morning, while staring out my hotel window at the skyline of downtown Vancouver.
It’s a good post, it really is. It has a joke about a finding love with a purple alien and a Swedish Ivy Plant. (Now that I have re-typed that line, it may be funnier in the context of the post I wrote. Moving on)
Anyway, you will have to believe me that it’s true and real and funny because last night I realized that I can’t publish it. I am a story teller, and that means I must only tell my tales. Sometimes it’s easy – I tell you the story of flying on the float plane or how I spent my day. Some times it is my reaction to things, or my reflections on things and that’s ok, because while there are other characters, the story stays with me and I don’t invade their privacy.
Maybe I will have a larger role to play in this story some time in the future. I really care about the main characters in the story and I am really rooting for them to be happy, but I think we are only about mid-way through the plot. I’m waiting in the wings, yearning to be on stage because I think that when I hit the stage we will be closer to the moment they live happily ever after.
It’s not my story yet. I’m only a secondary character.
This is hard because I love the person on centre stage a lot, and I want them to be happy, but I can’t help them from where I am, and I can’t move until I hear my cue.
And so yes, I could publish the post, and it might feel a bit better to publish the post because it would feel like I was moving the action forward, except not only am I not a main character, I’m especially not the director, and this is not my story.
So, this is me. In the wings. And from here, I will affirm: Truth is often better than secrecy. Understanding is better than intolerance. Love is always better than judgement. There are many ways to be happy and not enough happiness in the world and I will not judge on how others find happiness.