you can’t tell your story if you don’t know it…

be you be unique

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

If someone took the time to notice you, to see you, to want to read the dust jacket of your story, what would they see, hear, feel and read?

If you could be who you are and say what you feel, what would people experience? What would that experience be like for you?

Do you know?

have you noticed who has control?

eye_earth

 

I am me.

In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me.
Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine, because I alone chose it РI own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions, whether they be to others or to myself. I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes.

Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with all my parts. I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know – but as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles and ways to find out more about me.

However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think and feel at a given moment in time is authentically me. If later some parts of how I looked, sounded, thought, and felt turn out to be unfitting, I can discard that which is unfitting, keep the rest, and invent something new for that which I discarded.

I can see, hear, feel, think, say, and do.
I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be productive, and to make sense and order out of the world of people and things outside of me.
I own me, and therefore, I can engineer me.
I am me, and I am Okay.

A declaration of self esteem
Virginia Satir

do you know the man in the bowler hat?

maninbowlerhat

I am the unnoticed, the unnoticeable man;
The man who sat on your right in the morning train
The man who looked through like a windowpane
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of the mounting
morning pipe smoke.

I am the man too busy with a living to live
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch
The man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.
I am the man they call the nation’s backbone,
Who am boneless – playable catgut, pliable clay
The Man they label Little, lest one day
I dare to grow.

I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices
I am the graph diagram,
Composite face.

I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining, bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue, wave worn pebble-round

A.S.J. Tessimond