We are creatures of story. It is the only reason I can give you why I keep spouting these words, words, words and pairing them with these images while trying to assign a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Even when no one is listening. Even when no one is around. Even as I’m isolated. Even as I’m alone.
Words, words, words.
We take the insanity of experience – this thing that is unformed and unwieldy, unshaped, presented to us without any context – and we try to frame the experiences. We impose beginnings, middles, and endings because these narrative arcs never happen to us as we are experiencing real life.
Life is a messy undertaking. Life is ebb and flow. Life is violent and unpredictable. Life is menacing.
Life is sublime.
The rain stops, the fog clears, and the sun drifts out to penetrate the sky through the trees out in the park.
I look up.
And I think to turn this simple happening into a story.
Is this our signal from the Divine that all will be well?
Is this the diving bell coming up to the surface and delivering its passenger safely back to dry land?
Or is it just the passing of the rain?
Does it matter?
We control the story.
Because we’re creatures of story.
It’s the only reason I keep spouting all these words, words, words.
Keep writing. Keep talking. Keep singing. Keep dancing. Keep painting.
Keep telling tales.
We’re creatures of story.
Why else do we talk to each other?
We’re trying to tell our story to somebody else.
With a beginning, a middle, and an end.
I decide to take comfort in the sun’s reappearance.
That’s my story.
And I’m staying with it.