Posted on | June 4, 2013 | 1 Comment
This morning, I was on the telephone with my mom and we talked, among other things, about the the things she wished she’d been able to talk to her father about. She mentioned several of the things she just didn’t know the answers to, several things that she wished she’d had the time to ask questions about… the time to sit in his mind for a while, soak in his dreams and hopes and fears. I wish my grandparents had been writers; I’d love to read what they had to say about their lives before they had time to whitewash it all in their memories.
I have the time, stretching out ahead of me, to ask questions and hear the answers from my mother and my father… and I hope that my son does, too. But I realized, suddenly, that what I’m really doing here, what I’m actually putting out for the world to read and judge… are my own stories. I am writing the stories I hope my son will want to read… someday. I am writing the thoughts and feelings and emotions that maybe my grandchildren… maybe their children… will read and laugh at, will read and despise, will read and smile.
For my whole life, I’ve written stories and tucked them away because they weren’t good enough to share. For my whole life I’ve been trying to find the words to give birth to someone else’s story, someone else’s life and times and heartache. I’ve written and re-written, crossed out and highlighted, and I’ve never been satisfied with what was left over… not satisfied enough to put my name on it and send it out into the world. But here in this space, I have told and retold the stories of my heart. I have wept and smiled and laughed my way through the first months of J’s life and on and through my devastation at the loss of a marriage I never truly had.
Here in this space, I have told the stories of my life, the stories of my mind and soul, the hopes for my future and the heartaches of my past. Here, I have painted landscapes stretching out into the darkest corners of my loneliness, lighting myself afire with passion for the world I want to see, the world I hope to one day see expanding before me. Here I have written my stories… here I have shared my stories… with you, with myself, with the future selves who may wish and hope and dream alongside me.
Here I have written my stories. Here I will write my stories.
Because our stories are all we have of ourselves… all that we can share and leave behind… whether good or bad, drama or comedy. And I hope, fervently, that my life will always be a story worth writing… even if I’m only writing to myself.