If meaningfulness counts in gold, then I am having daily windfalls these days. All the stories I have been seeking in my previously moody adult life- are swiftly arriving, slotting themselves through the letter hole of my previously closed-door life. The dramas of my un-dramatic life are surfacing, still not my drama sure, borrowed stories yes–but still morphine for the hungryand unsharpened lens of the mind.
These bits and pieces are from the daily dosage of people I am meeting – stories sometimes told first-hand, otherwise relayed by a third party, or at times just plainly hypothesized. Sometimes the stories are painful (I crave), unexpected ( changes my tune), beautiful (when I get the big picture).
I haven’t realized how much I liked stories, until I hear a good one. That is when emotions need no summoning, it is the one narrative that grips your entire day- orchestrates your entire being- dictates your sighs and clogs up your heart- those are the stories. I am privy to them now.
All of which I am reading as a sign from our maker. “Here are your stories. This is life. It’s not monotonous. It’s sheer hard luck. Make yours happen.” Stories are my morphine- they make me tingle in my toes, and bring chills to my back. Pure drama rejects method of description. It doesn’t discriminate against the unstylish, everyone has at least one good one. I am now the festival –goer with an all-shows pass. Full access, to this balcony of life.
Filed under: conversations, daily grind, heartaches, working world
