Certainly, you may feel that life is foisted upon you. No one on Earth would ever possibly choose some of what life brings, and, yet, there is an aspect of you that has chosen it. This is hard if not impossible for you to grasp. Of course, you would not choose it consciously, yet, somewhere, somehow, you invited it.
I do not say you invited it foolishly, although it certainly seems foolhardy to you now when this guest arrives. If it is illness that is your guest, you had a compunction toward it. In some way, you chose it. You may be surprised or shocked at its arrival, yet there is also a satisfaction in its arrival. No one could be satisfied with illness, yet it satisfies something in you. It must, because you are convinced of it. It is as if you can smile now, although consciously you don’t smile at all and never could. Nevertheless, in some far distant land, you put in an order for illness as a complement or completion to something. This is what you call fate, beloveds. You started fate’s motor. Fate is a choice you made in a far distant land, and now the choice you made is calling to you.
If you are capable of calling illness to you, you are also capable of sending it away. You can change your mind. You can unchoose your choices.
And all the fine things that enter your life, you also called to you. What is the script of your life but that which you have waved to? By some code, you yelled out or whispered: