we are libraries.
we are ambulating repositories of story: mobile archives where lifetimes of rare and ordinary adventures are kept, shared, forgotten and refound – rexeplored among fresh generations and days.
our stories challenge and inspire. humble and embolden. they are diaries filled with warnings and joy.
we are libraries with shelved stories to read again and again as the heroine reaches out her hand or the hero finds his way home. some stories we shred half-read because – really – how did Wicked, the broadway show, come from such a terrible beginning?
these conveyances of life – these stories – can be so precious that we safeguard and share them with the most trusted and curated friends because not everyone is ready for Tolstoy, Moliere , Baldwin or Smarsh.
they are our most intimate and singular offerings. when we offer our stories to others, we invite people to write themselves into our libraries. add their card to the dewey decimal structure of our card catalogs. sometimes the co-authoring is brilliant. and sometimes it makes us want to burn down the entire collection … the entire thing.
our greatest stories are filled with everyday ordinary moments like those Thornton Wilder captured in Our Town. we love the derring do of hearts tossed down mountains and chased after by the adventurer on slippery skis who bushwhacks through the trees and life.
we jump when the tale turns dark at the turn of the screw and cry when the stories end. we miss our favorite characters.
and yet our stories continue. we keep filling our internal libraries with short stories ringing of laughter and wry half-winks. epic tomes of plodding as the dark night visits the soul. when dreams mildew on the shelf and the way ahead is wholly unknown and the present equally unacceptable.
libraries. we fill them with books and pictures crudely drawn and brilliantly rendered. albums of music. tales retold and refined. anthems of the days before. snapshots of this good day. musings of the future.
we travel. we watch our favorite shows. we leap at the chance or sit and avoid the dance. we save for perfect only to watch it dissolve in smoke and rain. we halfheartedly begin the maybe stories only to find that we love them most.
some stories – like books left out in the snow – grow wrinkled but with a great tale to tell. some, we set aflame and are left with only ashes. the words already whispered into existence and indestructible.
we are libraries. let’s fill us well.
invite others to author chapters and co-write favorite serials.
ask for help in deciphering our stories so we can better understand the hard parts.
dust off the dream section.
stoke a fire in the grand salon.
flip on the AC.
pour that sangiovese or tea of milk and honey.
risk that adventurous tale.
sit with our favorites.
laugh until it hurts.
cry until you are rid of the grief or poison.
air out the collection.
add to it.
adventure and wonder friends. live a good story.