Each day, month, year, and lifetime contains trillions and trillions of experiences. Humans like to zoom in on some and tell stories about them. (That's ok, I'm not here to judge that today). These stories get retold and retold and some become so popular that we all know them. We all know the defining story of Nelson Mandela; the path of Terry Fox; and what Mother Teresa did with her life.

Within each of us stories are being told. Little private narratives are turned around and massaged each day. Sometimes we share an abridged version with others and sometimes we tell them nothing at all. No matter what we say the stories that occupy our consciousness appear all over us: on our faces, through our posture, and in the actions we take.

In the past years I have fallen deep into a few stories and recently seen myself as a redeemed person. To tell this story I needed to first tell a story of how I was a failed person. Whether that is true or not I needed to create a story of the past to create a story of today. Today my redemption story is being challenged by the arrival of health concerns. This smacks in the face of the Superman narrative I had been telling myself and acting out to others. My face was proud and my shoulders were strong. Now I am simply human again. There is nothing about me that is better than you, no feature in my genes or mindset or past or future that sets me apart. I, as buddha and all others, am a composite of bones and blood, and flesh, and organs, and all sorts of other stuff. I cannot rise above because I am a human; a finite and imperfect animal.