I grab a lavender blossom as I walk, crushing it in deep desire in my fingers, spreading the scent on my face and clothes.  One story screams that I’m hurting the flower.  I switch to another story that it has spent its life yearning to be pressed against my fingers, hands and body.

One story is that I’m alone and unloved, taken for granted and useless underneath it all.  I claim the switch–even set a secondary toggle–that I am brilliant, loved, overflowing with a circulation of good in every way.  Good and plenty.

Some days the switch is easy.  Some days I eat cereal that makes me tired and take a nap, letting the luxury of time and rest slowly move me to a new now.  Away from then.  Letting the movement of the sun over the house shift my view.

In every active moment I claim the story of stillness in the heart of the One I love.