Some people don’t have a narrative arc in their lives, not the long life or even short bursts. We have moments of story, if we’re aware enough to know, “I believed this was true, but learned it wasn’t,” and can see moments of change and even transformation. There’s even writers who insist that no one’s life is a story.
But some of us, we have that, for whatever reason. My Mom had that. Dad, too. And me. I don’t know why it’s so. I just know, it’s so.
I did a writing practice today, the first time in over a month. Jumping back into a story about some fourth graders who build a tree fort. It felt good.
I see symbols, signs and structure, a lifetime of story and a lifetime yet to live. So much practice. I’m finally letting go of the right things, and embracing what I was so scared of, an unknown road that reminds me that all the roads are unknown, no matter how much we assure ourselves with certainty. This fills me with new serenity, not the familiar peace of a nervous system calm in turmoil, but a new peace in a quiet room of humble kindness.
And there’s story, one of my best friends, an abstraction that I get who gets me, a buddy I know well but who still has so much to get to know. Me and my magic books and special pens, all to spend time together.
It’s nice to hang out with story again.