Over the course of this blog, I have published close to fifty posts. For some bloggers, this is a small number. Fortunately for me, I’m not interested in comparing my experience in terms of number of posts, number of words, number of followers, or much else. I do appreciate those who read as it somehow brings validity to the writing experience.
My words have helped me work through thoughts. They have helped me celebrate moments and wrestle through difficulties. They have documented segments of my reality, my experience, my uniqueness. I have kept true, to the best of my ability at the moment, to choosing words on purpose. I have chosen them purposefully, as I believe in the power of words and the importance of our words.
There are certain words that come into vogue and get weakened by overuse. At least, that is my perception. But sometimes, words or phrases that have been heard or read many times, impact us in a significant manner, a manner that breathes newness and purpose.
For me…story is one of those words. Everyone has a story is one of those phrases.It’s rather cliche. In truth, I’m not particularly a fan of most cliche words or phrases. Idioms intrigue me, especially when trying to understand them in another language. Cliches are another thing entirely for me. But, I digress.
Even when done on purpose, digression occurs as words & phrases catch my attention.
Long story short….sob story….likely story….same old story….the story of life….cover story….two sides to every story….that’s another story….end of story….fish story….inside story….that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The beauty of a story, of an experience, is its uniqueness. Whether the story is hallmarkesque in its ending or leaves us waiting for a different resolution, there is beauty. Some stories seems to flow smoothly and some are a chore to finish. The smooth ones, may appear to have flowed easily from the author, but I’m guessing there was periods of anguish behind the scenes.
Somewhere in the not so distant past one of my children was asked to describe the members of her family. I cherish the description given to me as it was said, “Mom is the storyteller.”
Even now I’m feeling sentimental and a bit choked up as I carry that description with joy and immense responsibility.
While there are many other apt descriptors, some less endearing to me, I am honored this was the choice word.
At age fifty-five, I’m still seeking for what I am to be doing, but in that search, I’m aware of the need to continue on with what I am doing. I cannot say I set out each day considering how I will write my story or how it will be told. I do not live with the intent of leaving a legacy. I do not even like to consider living intentionally. (But that’s another blog, or probably a book!) I think that I live NOW and in that my story is being written. Living in the present, striving to notice the individual next to me, and looking for the simple beauty in the moment has prompted a simpler joy and directed me to a peace that is readily present. As I sometimes push against not knowing what I am to be doing, I find a strange peace in continuing on, as that is what I am to do. There is a strange contradiction in this reality.
Perhaps this makes sense to only myself. That may be why I’m still seeking for what I am to be doing, as my fit in the world is unique to my story and my type of story telling. The beauty of uniqueness is that it is of great value. It is worth the telling, as it may open a heart and mind to something new. It may expose perspectives worth examining. It may solidify the already discovered uniqueness in another.
I began this post a long time ago…long in the scope of my blogging experience. I smile as I look back at my story since I wrote the opening paragraphs and set them aside. Since setting the intro aside, the value of reading and writing personal stories came to forefront as I was allowed to focus my thoughts on personal narratives for a summative work for a graduate degree completed earlier this year. The academic and personal importance of personal narratives melded and the description given as storyteller took on greater significance. I could not only validate my personal joy in stories and storytelling, but I would find significance that supported that joy. Some of my uniqueness was validated. Words helped discover significance. The words didn’t come easily, just as our stories aren’t always easily written.
Like many, I often wish I knew what was next and would like to skip to read ahead. Yet, that might deprive me of moments that are happening now. That would hinder today and how the story develops. I might miss something that would be worth telling.
I have had occasion (truthfully I have made occasion) to reflect on the brevity of my story. Fifty-five is pretty short! I sometimes wonder how long my story will be and I suppose cancer has had a part in that speculation. I’m not sorry about that sense of wonder. I find it wise to “number my days” (there is an earlier post about this) and to be present as I write my story.
This storyteller is continuing to write. I’m writing in my own words!