Stories surround me.
I can't walk far without coming across a penny,
lying there on the ground, just waiting for me.
Which means that I must walk with my head down,
right? If I keep noticing pennies and squirrels and such,
that must mean that when I walk, I look down instead of up.
In that case, I fear that I'll miss the tales of which the birds sing.
If I'm never looking up, how will they know they I would
very much enjoy to sit cross-legged on their classroom carpet,
leaning forward to not miss a word of what they have to tell?
Though it worries me that there are stories – like the birds' – that
I might miss, it mostly just brings me great joy and comfort to know that
there are stories are all around me.
Can I really miss them if they're part of me, too?
Even the way I'm writing this now – doesn't it sound kind of like
Dahl's writing in Matilda? And isn't it clearly inspired by the short stories
I'm reading now in Someone Who Will Love You In All Your Damaged Glory?
In story, there is truth.
Have you ever been talking to someone who is in middle school,
when you accidentally, though thankfully, stumble upon that perfect
question? That question that finally gets the key in the lock justttt right
so that the door can open enough for all the words can start filing out,
shy at first, single file, and then pushing the door wide with words just
rushing to get told, with only maybe two or three words even fighting over
who gets to be the "caboose" of the line.
Isn't it something how the stories in us bring out the stories in those near?
I'm guessing that's because in story, we see ourselves
and we see You.
In story, we become ourselves in You.
Thank you. What a gift it all is.
(Did you notice that last line sounds quite a bit like Madeleine L'engle could have ghost-written a closing sentence for me? It really is something, I think.)