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Here are some writing by other folks. 
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nd so I would like to share them with you! 
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Cinderella and Her Prince

By Sat Purkh Kaur Khalsa

Written on Thursday, December 20, 2007,

published in Soul Answer Newsletter February 26, 2008


or is it Sleeping Beauty? I went to my first therapy session last night. Hmmm. I know, I know. Some of you out there are saying to yourself, "Well, it's about time!" (smile). We did some talking and then she had me draw my anger and my sadness and then I was given an assignment to ask my anger what it needs. . . . all very interesting and yet I can't seem to wipe the smirk off of my face.

All cynicism aside, though, I did get some good information. My anger is directed out and in: I'm angry at myself for holding on to the idea of a happy ending. The storybook ideal is killing me. I'm also angry at God and men and my oh so many disappointments. The anger at God and men is pretty easy to address--forgiveness. Continue to connect and relate as best I can and allow a sense of softness around it all. The anger at myself for my continued hope--a bit more complicated.

I've gone from gifted little girl, to angry, acting-out feminist, to struggling, spiritual seeker, to mature (okay that's still in question), thoughtful, progressive woman. And in all of these variations there resided hope--hope that somehow, someday, someone would come and 'save' me. Am I right to blame it on the fairy tales? The story so deeply embedded in every girl's psyche that wrenching it out means a potentially mortal blow?

The greatest fallacy of this story is the idea that we need saving, or fixing in the first place. The truest reality is that we are already perfect. We just can't see it. We've traded our own identity and power--the great feast of the soul--for a watered-down version of love called romance, which has a bitter aftertaste. If it comes down to romance vs. reality: I'm finally ready for reality to win.

My belief in a 'happy' ending has kept me from experiencing life on life's terms. It is the cause of perpetual discontent and that ever persistent itchy, scratchy, knot-in-my-stomach anxiety about 'what I want'. It's all so childish. And yet, there is something about hope that continues to call to me.

Hope is a bird with wings. But faith is the thing that flies. Save yourself. Kill the story. And make up your own ending.


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