I believe we are all full of stories.
I believe we are all looking for the way home. To whatever our essential, fundamental home is, where we are truly ourselves, where we are seen and recognized and known and witnessed as such.
I believe that telling our stories—to others, maybe, but most of all to ourselves—is the only way to find our way home.
Some days, the words of my stories shower over me, like a waterfall or a sudden torrential squall. These are the days when I pull over on the highway to tap sentences onto my iPhone. The days I wake in the night to scribble thoughts onto the pad of paper beside my bed. The days I run with words tumbling over themselves in my head, the words of others, songs and quotations, somersaulting over and with my own images and thoughts, and as I run, I repeat them over and over, hoping not to forget them.
Other days the words are thin. I fear they are gone. I might catch a glimmer of them, like the surprising sparkle of mica in concrete pavement. But there aren’t enough to hold onto, not enough words to form a rope that I can use to go hand-over-hand from here to there. They are a fragile line, the streak of a snail’s slimy passage, the evanescent foam on the edge of a wave, the fading white path of an airplane, disappearing before my eyes in a hydrangea blue sky.
The words tell the stories that show us the way home. Without the words, it follows, I feel a bit lost.
Trying to trust the rain will come again.