I'm lost in the ongoing story. The story where kids grow too big too soon, where tastes and smells keep the old stories alive, where tears can turn funny and laughter can turn sad at the drop of a hat. It can sound like a song. It can be terribly out of tune. It can feel like I'm being chased by a cold wind. It can feel like a hug. If lucky enough, it can be caught in a single frame with a lens as instant memory, instant validation. The stories are made after grassy rendezvous that wind up smelling like the outdoors inside, that come in the form of rainbows and bubblegum bubbles and the sounds of running footsteps upstairs and back scratches at bedtime. It's history, fiction, art, and sensibility. They're the need for help, and the desire to be needed. Adrenaline may fuel some stories, but some of the best are made on long, boring summer days. They can be cruel- the good ones easily swept away and the bad ones hard to forget. The ones that are easily stretched, embellished, and immortalized as time goes by may rival the daily gathering in-and-out stories. Our crossed paths make story-collisions, and we eventually pass them on to the little people in our paths. No matter how hard I might try at times, there's no pause in the making. Story begins with our ancestors and extends beyond the grave, and it's the celebration in between.
Happy storytelling.
